Startling Developments
by Emotistic Optimistic
Summary: Tycho Brahe keeps trying his hand at Paranormal Investigation, but fails continuously. John Gabriel was a champion prize fighter, until the devil came to town. Can these two underdogs show New Arcadia that they're not COMPLETE losers? RSPD-verse, pre-Ep.1
1. In Which We Meet The Scholar

(A/N: Before starting, I'd like to announce my gratitude to J. Lucy-Daisuke for beta reading. Without her, there would be typos and mediocre descriptions. Horrific thought? You bet it is. You all better get her some cookies.)

(A/N part 2: Just to make things clear, this is a Precipice fic as opposed to a regular PA fic, so if you begin wondering why Tycho's horrific childhood in this doesn't match up with his normal horrific childhood, that's why. It's also a speculation fic; there is no concrete evidence for it. And I own nothing. At all.)

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was the bright light seeping in through his closed eyelids. So, probabilities were high that it was daytime. The second was the splitting ache in his jaw and ribcage, made painfully obvious as he sat up. The third and final of his observations was that, when he finally opened his eyes, his left ocular device refused to cooperate, and reacted with a dull pain every time he tried to force it open. This meant, without a doubt, that he had a black eye. Perfect.

Tycho Erasmus Brahe let out a groan as he stretched out his back. Good God, what were they _feeding_ kids these days? Horse steroids? (Then again, in this part of New Arcadia, they probably were). Slowly, he got to his feet, making sure he suffered no broken limbs, then looked around with his good eye. Judging by the sun, it seemed to be mid-to-late morning.

He stood there for a moment, taking in his rather dingy surroundings. While not _quite_ as run-down or, for lack of a better term, shithole-esque as Hobo Alley, this neighborhood was definitely...something else. Rats ran free through the streets, most likely singing little squeaky praises as they pranced from over-turned trash can to over-turned trash can in their disease-ridden paradise. He also tried not to breathe too deeply; there was an overwhelming mixture of excrement, dead bodies and...syphilis?...wafting through the air. Not pleasant to think about, even less pleasant to experience. Especially when it was fourth time experiencing it in one week.

Tycho was just calculating the quickest, least deadly path back to his agency when sudden realization gripped him the same way a hobo grips a rabid raccoon: _violently_. He hurriedly pulled out his watch and looked at the time. 11:02. He had missed his deadline.

"God_damn_ it!" he exclaimed, kicking a nearby mailbox in anger.

"Hey! Watch your fucking language, mister! There are fucking _kids_ around here!" one man shouted from his window.

"What are you doing, kicking that poor mailbox like that? What kind of sick bastard kicks an innocent mailbox?" a nearby woman demanded, taking the mailbox into a protective embrace.

"Hey," one man sitting on the corner called, "it's that Brahe guy!"

"The one with the crazy fucking loco family?" came from the man in the window.

"Yeah!"

Ah, his reputation preceded him. Fan-_tastic._

"Let's get him before his crazy rubs off on us!"

"I'll get my pitchfork!"

"It _has_ been a while since our last angry mob…"

Tycho sighed, then began stretching out his legs. Even if it _did_ conjure up horrific memories from his grade-school days, the constant mobs _had_ helped him keep up his thin, scholarly physique. He got into his starting position and waited for the signal to start. A bullet whizzed by his ear, and he was off, running pell-mell through the streets of New Arcadia. He really needed to work on his form; he was sure Olympic runners never had their gangly arms flailing about as they screamed for help.

Then again, there _had_ been that time back in '04…

He allowed himself a small smile as he saw the door up ahead, with the welcoming words "Ty ho Br h , Par orm l nv tigat r" (roughly translated: "Tycho Brahe, Paranormal Investigator". For his budget, this was all they could manage.)

As he approached, he reached for the knob and flung the door open. Er, _tried_ to fling it open, to be precise. What he had really done was almost thrown out his shoulder after pulling the knob. He had forgotten that he had locked it.

"Shit!" he hissed. Normally, he avoided using coarse words like this often; it wasn't becoming of a man who has earned his doctorate. However, this was a moment where he honestly didn't give a shit about appearances. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, dodging bullets, tritons, cats, and even a baby at one point as he did. Finally, he found the key, unlocked the door, flew inside and locked it again just in the nick of time.

However, they still had guns. Tycho dove under his desk as bullets crashed through the windows. After a brief barrage, though, they either ran out of bullets or interest, and all was silent. Finally, he deemed it safe to exit from his sanctum.

He sighed as he looked around his war-torn office. This was the third time this month something like this had happened. He ran a hand through his unruly mop of mostly-brown hair, then noticed a stray tommy-gun lying on the floor. He carefully walked over and picked it up, examining it. All the bullets were still present, so its owner had most likely thrown it in a fit of passion. Or just in a plain old fit. That worked, too. Carefully, he placed it on his desk. It could definitely be of some use, some day.

With yet another heaving sigh, he collapsed in his chair, thoroughly exhausted. He needed a scotch, badly. He opened one of his desk's drawers and pulled out a bottle of Lightnin' Juice, then downed it as quickly as possible. True, it was really quite awful moonshine—and _definitely_ not scotch—but it was much cheaper, and it got the job done.

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his wits a little easier after the sudden influx of alcohol into his system. He then pulled out another bottle, drinking this one much more slowly as he reviewed his last case. It _should_ have been easy; a manticore had been bothering the neighborhood, eating the neighbors and whatnot. And so he had been hired to hunt it down and stop it. Nothing unusual there.

But then he had run into those _apes_ while on the trail, and then ambushed by ten-year-olds not long after. And, after being unconscious for the better part of eighteen hours, he had missed his deadline, which meant that everyone in the neighborhood was dead, which meant he sure as _hell_ wasn't going to be getting paid now.

He frowned. It was time to face the music: he, Tycho Brahe, needed a partner. Badly. He finished off his tawdry beverage, then stared at the wall and thought. While a partner was necessary, it would be very hard to find one. He'd need someone of a more…pugilistic nature than he, someone who knew how to fight back.

And he couldn't be too smart, either. In fact, he couldn't be smart at _all._ If this person was one of those "smart" people in this area, he'd do nothing but dismiss this profession as pure folly. Ideally, someone with the mindset of a third-grader, possibly lower. Finally, said partner would have to have had experience with the supernatural; otherwise, there would be questions. And Tycho _hated _questions. Hence why his school teacher job didn't last very long.

Tycho shook his head. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. Where could he _possibly_ find someone who met _all_ of these requirements?

He hauled himself to his feet and stretched, trying to relieve himself of the stiffness that came after a good pummeling. He glanced down and noticed the day-old paper lying among the shards of glass that used to be his windows. He shook it to remove the excess debris, and his eyes widened as he noticed the headline:

**PRIZE-FIGHTER GABE LOSES TO DEVIL IN MATCH: "WHAT THE HELL?" HE SAYS.**

Quickly, Tycho scanned the first paragraph of the article.

"In a shocking turn of events, prize-fighter and crowd favorite

Johnathan "Gabe" Gabriel lost in the final match of the season to the

Prince of Darkness himself. Thousands of fans are outraged, as many

Had placed bets in the favor of Gabriel.

'Man, I thought if anyone could beat the devil, it'd be Gabe,' one

disappointed fan remarked.

"Gabriel has declined to comment so far, but, as he was dragged out

from the ring after being knocked out for two days, he was said to

be shouting, 'Fucking rematch! I fucking want a fucking rematch! I'll show

this fucking motherfucker who's the fucking best!'"

Tycho's eyes, grown wide as he had read the article, darted over to the picture just under the headline, under which read the caption, "Johnathan Gabriel, after the match." Two burly men seemed to be restraining the dark-haired, slightly foamy young man between them.

Tycho Erasmus Brahe looked up, smiling wider than he had in months. He had just found Candidate Number One for the position of his new partner.


	2. In Which We Meet the Genius

(A/N-again, I would like to thank my FABULOUS beta-reader J. Lucy-Daisuke for...well, beta-reading. She really is fantastic, and without her, there would be no descriptions. Of anything. Ever. So you should give her cookies.)

* * *

The next day, feeling a tad better, Tycho left his little agency (which doubled as his home) and headed out for a much nicer part of town. He paused as he reached a large wrought-iron gate embellished with elegant letters reading "Forthwith" in the arch. Tycho sighed, frowning. He hated this gorgeous, mansion-like house. Every window and door seemed to call out, "Oh, look, I'm so much better than you, Tycho!" in never-ending mockery.

He made sure to give the gate his customary kick.

However, like all the other times he had visited, Tycho swallowed his pride and opened the gate. Since this _was_ the nicer part of town, there was no need for the gate to be locked, and this made his life a _lot_ easier. As he walked up the pretty path to the obscenely huge front door, he managed a little smile. While he hated the abode and the man who owned it, there was someone here he was eager to see.

He dusted off his vest as he reached the door, then rapped on it curtly. While it _was_ rude to drop in uninvited, he was certain that he would be well-received. After a moment, the large door slowly opened to reveal a small brunette girl, aged eleven, in a pretty, yet overly adorned, dress. Her face was solemn as she looked out, but split into a huge grin as she recognized the visitor.

"Oh, Uncle!" she exclaimed gleefully as she embraced him. "I was beginning to wonder if you would _ever_ come!"

"Nonsense, child! How could you even think that I would forsake you like that?" he asked, hoisting her up into his arms. He huffed; she had grown since his last visit.

"Ow!" she cried. Tycho quickly set her down.

"My deepest apologies," he said very seriously. "I suppose you _are_ getting a mite too tall for me to carry you as such."

"While I don't doubt that too be true, that's not the reason I yelped. I hit my leg on some…" she trailed off, and her eyes lit up. Tycho smiled.

"Alas, darling niece! You have found me out," he cried over-dramatically. "Since it is no secret anymore, I suppose I have no choice but to present you with these gifts." With great flourish, he pulled out several gears, screws, bolts, and even a small wrench from his pockets. He presented these to his niece grandly. "For you, Miss Anne-Claire Forthwith."

She took them eagerly. "Oh, these are _exactly _what I needed! Thank you for answering my distress call, Uncle. Mother's been taking away all my work so far…she says it's 'not proper'."

"Egad! What a wretched woman," he gasped, half in jest. "Then it is _imperative_ that you find a good hiding spot for these."

"I shall, I shall! Oh, Uncle, is there any way I can repay you?"

"Under ordinary circumstances I would tell you to think nothing of it. But I am in _dire_ need of a telephone at the moment, and that would more than suffice as payment."

"Oh, of course! Come, follow me," she said.

Tycho followed Anne-Claire through the massive home, eyes watering from the most-likely-illegal amount of ammonia used in cleaning the white marble tiling. As his gaze traveled around the seemingly endless first floor, he wrinkled his nose; it was _far_ too neat in here, even for an average thinker. Being a genius, his poor niece was most likely suffocating from the anti-disestablishment of the house.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, he began feeling that urge that all uncles feel when visiting their nieces and nephews: the need to make small talk.

"How go your studies, child?" he asked. Anne-Claire laughed.

"Are studies all you think of, Uncle?"

"I have fair reason to! I have my doctorate, after all."

"Yes, but in Apocalyptics. I'm fairly certain that such a course wouldn't be offered in _my_ school. And either way, it's not scientific at all, which…"

Tycho smiled. "You are evading my inquiry, Anne-Claire."

She sighed. "They go well, if excruciatingly dull. And they won't allow me to participate in the Science Fair this year."

"Whatever for?"

Anne-Claire smiled proudly. "I built a machine that could potentially steal someone's soul."

Tycho stared at the girl, not quite sure whether to be overtly proud, concerned, or terrified.

She continued, "I mean, I didn't test it, and it would only be for the most _dire_ of circumstances, but the sheer machinery in itself put me too far ahead of the other students." She glowered. "So first prize went to a papier-mâché volcano." She paused in front of the telephone in the hall and smiled. "Here we are, Uncle. I leave you to your business in privacy." She curtsied somewhat awkwardly due to all the parts in her arms. Tycho returned it with a formal bow.

"A plethora of thanks, dearest niece," he said, smiling as she hurried upstairs to her work. As soon as she was up the stairs, though, his smile faded into a slight frown. He couldn't help but feel guilty for not visiting sooner. Her parents were constantly on holiday, leaving her on her own. True, she was capable of taking care of herself, but still…beneath the genius there beat the heart of a little girl.

He shook his head, reminding himself that he had business to attend to. He picked up the phone and dialed 0 for the operator.

"Hello, operator?" he asked.

"How may I help you?" came a bored, nasally voice on the other end.

"Um, yes…if you could get me Johnathan Gabriel, please?"

"Please hold." The operator sounded as though he had asked her to cut off her hand as opposed to plugging a line into a receiver.

After a moment, Tycho received an earful of hacking coughs. "Krah-Krahulik Apartments, how can I help you?" asked a…woman? He thought it was a woman.

"Um…yes, I'd like to speak to Johnathan Gabriel," he said, somewhat tentatively. In reply, another barrage of borderline-tuberculosis coughs assaulted his ear.

"Please…" Another coughing fit. "…hold, sir."

"Of course." Tycho waited, tapping his foot impatiently. Obviously, quick and friendly service had no place in the upcoming '20's. He sighed, thankful that he had a full week before his brother and sister-in-law returned. Though, gathering from how long it was taking this woman to locate Gabriel, he might still be here when they came home. Hmm…on the subject of that final week prior to their arrival…maybe he could rummage up a few more parts for Anne-Claire…

"Sir?"

"Oh, yes?" He was suddenly snapped back to reality.

A slightly stifled cough attack. "Mr. Gabriel's out at the moment. Should I—" A loud, wet-sounding cough. "—take a message?"

"Um…yes." The sheer sounds coming from the other end of line made Tycho want to dip the phone in bleach. "Let him know that Tycho Brahe is interested in meeting him and has a business opportunity for him. If he is interested, then he can find me at 1198 Holkins Av…en…ue…" He trailed off as he heard the front door creak open. "God_damn_ it!" he exclaimed.

"Tycho?" came a loud, masculine voice—one all too familiar to Tycho's ears. Anne-Claire rushed into the hall, her dress already smudged with what looked like motor oil.

"Uncle, they're back early!" she cried.

"Yes, I gathered that. Stall them as long as you can, child!"

Anne-Claire nodded, then hurried to the front of the house, where he soon heard several over-enthusiastic pleasantries regarding the couple's early arrival.

"Anne-Claire, if you've been talking with that no-good uncle of yours…" Mr. Forthwith thundered, then hurried into the hall.

A hacking cough nearly raping Tycho's ear reminded him that he was on the phone. "Sir?"

"!" he yammered quickly then hung up the phone as Forthwith skidded into the hall. Tycho had never really noticed what a contrast there was between them: while Tycho's mostly brown hair hung unkempt around his eyes, Forthwith's was impeccably neat and fashionably short; as opposed to his threadbare adventure gear, the man opposite him wore a neatly tailored, brand new suit.

Forthwith crossed his large arms; Tycho tensed. Perhaps there was a chance for him to throw something—preferably a large something—at Forthwith's head, dazing him long enough for the scholar to make his escape. Desperately, he scanned the long hallway for that precise thing to haul at the other man. Expensive wood paneling…expensive wood paneling…damn! No dice. There _was _a vase by the telephone, but it was a really _nice_ vase. Tycho didn't want to waste a nice vase like that. Slowly, he exhaled and looked up as he realized that he had to face the inevitable.

"Hello, brother," he said softly.

"Have you been here to pollute my daughter's mind?" Forthwith asked tersely. Tycho frowned.

"Now, now, none of that. You know I adore Anne-Claire, and I only focus on her best interests."

Forthwith's brow creased in mounting annoyance. "Her best interest would be you staying the hell away from her. You might lead her to believe in all that nonsense of gods and monsters. I don't want her going down the same path as ou—" he caught himself. "…as _your_ father."

Tycho opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. He sucked his teeth for a moment, trying to find a way to phrase his thoughts without using the words "coward," "bastard," "uptight," or "fucking."

"That's right, you're no longer a Brahe. Forgive me, I forget sometimes," he said, not able to hide the bitterness in his voice. He gave a curt nod. "In that case, _Mr. Forthwith_, I wish you a good day, and I shall leave your house without further delay." He held his head high, and walked back toward the front of the house. However, as he reached the end of the hall, he turned around and very seriously met his brother's icy gaze with identical dark eyes.

"I don't want you to sustain the belief that I bear you ill will, brother. No, not at all. In fact, I'm _happy_ for you. I'm very glad that you've succeeded in life. It's just…" He sighed, searching for the words. "…why do you always try to run from the inevitable?"

Forthwith stiffened, his eyes wide. The two brothers remained in silence for a long moment. Finally, the elder huffed.

"Get out of my house, _Mr. Brahe_, and don't come near it again. The next time I catch you here, I'll place your head on my mantle."

Tycho sighed, then turned on his heel and hurried out of the house. While most likely empty, he had no intention of testing Forthwith's threat. He slipped through the front door and sent a last look up to Anne-Claire's room. She waved forlornly at her uncle, wrench visible from her skirt pocket. He waved back, attempting an encouraging smile and not quite knowing if he succeeded. Her curtains closed, and he loped down the path to the gate.

While today certainly _wasn't_ ideal, it also wasn't without its triumphs. He seemed to have succeeded in supplying his brilliant niece with the items and a small bit of the companionship she required. And, hopefully, he would soon have the acquaintance of Johnathan Gabriel and, with some luck, a new business partner. And he hadn't gotten shot at _once_, which was always a plus. In his mental calendar, Tycho Erasmus Brahe marked this day as a complete, if unorthodox, success.


	3. In Which We Meet The Brute

(A/N-Once again, I'd like to give about a hojillion thanks to J. Lucy Daisuke! She's awesome and saves my life on a regular basis. Like, seriously. You should all thank her loads. Srsly.)

(A/N #2: w00t! Finally found the Penny Arcade section! I swear, this thing was _not_ here the last 85 times I checked.)

A few days later, Tycho was nervously making sure that his agency was looking, at the very least, less shithole-like. True, it had looked that way since it had been bequested unto him as a very young man—a very small, irrational part of him wanted to _keep _it that way, for memory's sake—but the situation was absolutely dire. That morning, he had received a telegram that Johnathan Gabriel wanted to meet with him about the business position _today._ Which meant that there was very little time to do the impossible and make his office look professional.

Finally, Tycho dropped in his chair, focusing on not allowing his nerves to get to him, and as a result, causing him to hyperventilate. All day, he had been trying to tell himself that there was nothing to worry about with Mr. Gabriel (though it was _very _hard, Tycho was trying to train himself to stay formal; true, it was nearly 1920, but there was a chance that Gabriel was an old-fashioned type, so better safe than dead). Realistically speaking, this bear-man was most likely just another mindless drone of the prizefighting ring.

_However…_Tycho nervously thought as he chewed his lower lip. _Maybe he's secretly a genius—a genius who only does business with someone who has _glass_ in their windows…_

He glared up at the newspaper and tape that shielded him from the outside world. Oh, _why_ hadn't he waited six months before the meeting? He might have _had_ glass by then!

A shadow suddenly appeared on the other side of the door. Tycho felt his stomach drop as the shadow enlarged, obviously walking toward it. Dammit! There was still so much he needed to do! There were papers that needed to be sorted through! _There was dust in the corner, goddammit!_

Without knowing what else to do, he quickly heaved himself out of his chair and went up to the door just as the figure was raising its hand to knock on the door. Just as he reached for the doorknob, a hairy fist came bursting through the papered window and slammed right into Tycho's face.

Stunned, he fell to the floor.

"Oh, shit!" cried a voice. Tycho, trying to blink his eyes back into focus, sat up. Blood appeared to be pouring out from his nose. Fan_tas_tic.

"Oh, _shit!_" came the cry again. Tycho groaned; he could feel one bitch of a headache coming on. Plugging his nose to stop the bloodflow, he looked up to see if his assailant was, in fact, Johnathan Gabriel. Through the new hole in his makeshift window, he could see the messy black hair and wild eyes belonging to the man from the photo, the mouth of whom was agape in what appeared to be confusion. Tycho pulled out a handkerchief to mop up his nose-blood.

"No, no, dod't worry aboud id," he got to his feet quickly. "Lebbe oped the door for you, Mr. Gabriel," he said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. He opened the door and bade Mr. Gabriel in, scrutinizing his prospective partner as he did.

Despite his somewhat bearish-ness, the prize-fighter was surprisingly lanky. Appearances obviously weren't his number one concern, as he was carelessly dressed in suspenders and a partially buttoned, wrinkled white shirt. Still, looks could be deceiving, he remembered, so Tycho was better off sticking to the formal act.

After making sure he was no longer bleeding, he put on his most cordial smile and said, "Please, Mr. Gabriel, take a seat." The bear-man obliged, sitting in the little wooden chair opposite Tycho's own chair. "Brandy?"

"Fuck, ye—I mean, yes…_please_…" Mr. Gabriel said the last word awkwardly, as though painfully forcing it from the depths of kindergarten civility. Obviously, his manners were a little rusty, as it was with most prize-fighters. Still, never look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. It's good advice; it could bite your hand off, and _that_ would suck.

Tycho walked over to the small table in the back where he kept his "brandy," which was really only Lightnin' Juice in a fancy bottle. But Gabriel didn't know that, now, did he? He poured a little into two glasses, then walked back to his desk and gave one glass to Mr. Gabriel. He leaned against his desk and took a small drink.

"So, Mr. Gabriel…or may I call you Johnathan?"

"Oh, God, no! I fucking _hate_ that name…I hate it to _death_," Mr. Gabriel clenched his teeth, raging at his name. Tycho stared for a moment, then coughed awkwardly.

"Um….all right, then…so, Mr. Gabriel…"

"_No._ I am _not_ a hojillion years old."

"What?"

"Mr. Gabriel's an old guy name. Do I fucking _look_ like an old guy?" He gave Tycho a look that made the scholar's blood run cold, which was very hard to do.

Tycho sucked his teeth; it was actually a good thing that he was terrified of this man, or else he would have most likely shot him by now.

"Oh, yes…I mean, no, you don't…_John_?" he tried.

The brute rolled his eyes. Tycho slammed his glass down, finally annoyed enough to put his physical well-being aside.

"Then what the _hell_ am I supposed to call you, Gabriel?" he snapped.

Gabriel smiled, "Yeah, that's cool."

Tycho stared at him for a moment, then downed the rest of his drink and regained his composure, "Yes, well, Gabriel…I understand you've come here about my offer."

Gabriel nodded, his dark hair flopping in his face as he did so, "Yeah. Gladys—" (_Ha_, thought Tycho, _so it _was_ a woman!)_ "—gave me your message when I got back from punching out some hobos."

Tycho stared, silent a moment. " Punching out some…excuse me?"

"Some hobos," Gabriel's face became serious. "They're a problem. Like, seriously, I've gotten calls from the police to take care of some of them. They're fucking _everywhere._"

He got to his feet and dug into his pocket. "Anyway, I got the paper right here." He pulled out a greasy, wrinkled piece of paper and read it, " 'Tycho Br-_ayy_..." (Tycho shuddered at the horrible mispronounciation.) "…business op-oppor-opportunity…Holkins Avenue…goddammit…Ieagenaferwatangoobi."

Tycho blinked, "Wait, what was that last one?"

"Ieagenaferwatangoobi," Gabriel shrugged as he dropped back into the chair. "Your words, not mine."

"But…I didn't…" Tycho sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. But I take it you're interested in my proposition?" At Gabriel's blank look, he amended, "My proposal, I mean."

Gabriel immediately went on the defensive, "Woah, hey, I…I don't do that. With guys. It…It's faggy…and gay. Mostly faggy, though."

Tycho stared at him, getting less and less surprised with his guest's responses. Obviously, he was stupid enough for this job; there might even be a chance that he was _over_-qualified.

As patiently as he could, he explained, "No, Gabriel. No. I mean that you're interested in the business. I can imagine that times have been hard on you as of late, given your…ahem…loss…"

A pout formed on Gabriel's lips, and he crossed his arms as he looked at the floor. "I don't wanna talk about it…"

"And I'm not asking you to," Tycho said, tentatively putting a hand on the man-beast's shoulder. "But I _am_ asking you to consider my offer. I'll warn you, though…the first few months _will_ be hard. I won't be able to pay you. In fact, we'll probably have to stop eating for a month, maybe two."

He stood up straight and smiled, dark eyes lighting up with the thought of success. In this rarely shown excitement, he began pacing around the small office. "But just think of it, Gabriel…Two underdogs, showing the world what we can do! Between my brains and your brawn, we'll take this God-forsaken town by storm! We'll show them the _real _men they dismissed as failures and lunatics! For every scathing remark they dealt out, we'll repay them tenfold! Of course, we must be somewhat gracious…it is _most _unbecoming to act like _complete _dicks toward the little people. However, even the _greatest_ men have been prone to rubbing their success in the bastards' faces, so by the four below…" Tycho trailed off as he heard a soft snoring. He looked over at his almost-partner. "Gabriel? _Gabriel!"_

"Whu—I'm awake!" Gabriel cried, sitting up straight.

"You fell asleep during my uplifting monologue!"

"I did _not._ I was just…" He bit his lip and looked around the room helplessly. "I was just listening with my eyes closed!"

"And snoring to help you focus?" Tycho asked dryly.

"Yeah! Exactly! Fuck, you hit that right on the head!"

Tycho frowned deeply. That wasn't the _only_ thing he wanted to hit on the head. "Gabriel?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you _want_ this job?"

"Yes."

"Then try not to be such a…" he was about to say "jackass," but thought better of it. Gabriel was, without a doubt, the single perfect candidate for the job, and—though now he _really_ hated to admit it—Tycho couldn't afford to lose him. Plus, he had experienced what those meat-like fists could do on _accident_. Insulting this bear-man would most likely lead to Tycho finding out what those fists could do with purpose, which was not appealing in the least.

With a deep breath, he got up and went back to the alcohol. After refilling his glass to the brim, he sat back down and took a long drink. Finally, he said, "Tell me about yourself, Gabriel."

The dark-haired fighter perked up, then tried to put on an air of cool indifference. "Well, I believe that all great people start out as orphans…"

Tycho choked on his drink. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry," he said sincerely. True, his own father had been unjustly admitted to a hellhole of an asylum, but at least he had had his mother, which was better than nothing.

Gabriel stared. "Sorry for what?"

"About…about what happened to your parents."

"Oh, them? They're fine."

Tycho stared at the other man, utterly confused. "But…you said…"

"That's why I ran away from home. I think they're still looking for me, actually."

He got to his feet and walked over to Tycho's makeshift windows. After searching for a moment, he pointed to an article. "Here it is!"

Tycho walked over, slightly dazed in disbelief. Was this actually happening? This couldn't actually be happening. He found where Gabriel was pointing. It was a little box in the classifieds that read, "Please come home, Johnny. We love and miss you very much. Don't forget to breathe. Love, Mom and Dad".

Gabriel inhaled and exhaled, then smiled, "That was nice."

Tycho stared at him. "You mean you don't even let them know if you're alive?"

The former fighting champion gave him a look that clearly read, "Duh."

"Well, of _course_ they know I'm still alive. I'm in the newspaper, like, all the time. And anyway, orphans don't talk to their parents. Everyone knows that," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes! Because their parents are _dead!_ I should kn—" He caught himself, then quickly grabbed his glass and finished off his drink.

Gabriel looked at him oddly. "You should nn…what?"

"I…I should_n't_ question you about your life. It's rude," amended Tycho quickly.

"Oh, it's no big deal! I was just going to start writing my autobiography soon, anyway."

Tycho held back a snort. _First you'll have to learn how to spell your name_, he thought snidely, then chided himself. _No, Tycho, be nice. You haven't sealed the deal yet. _He returned his focus to Gabriel, who had been talking during his inner monologue.

"…so I pretty much grew up on the streets. The first little while was pretty suckish, but then I learned how to punch things. Like, _really_ hard. So my manager—or, I guess, the dick who _used_ to be my manager—picked me up and set me up in prize-fighting, which wasn't bad for a fourteen-year-old, I guess. And I totally fucking _dominated_ until that shit-fuck the Devil cheated and took that away…" he seethed for a moment, then smiled. "And that's it."

Tycho swirled around the last few drips of moonshine around in his glass. "So…you've essentially done nothing but _punch things_…for your _whole life?_"

"Um…Yeah. Pretty much."

The paranormal investigator tried to suppress a smirk; this man couldn't _be_ any more perfect. "Wow, that…_Wow._"

Gabriel's blue eyes widened. "But…but I can do other things, too!" he quickly asserted. "I-I can cook…sorta….a-and…and…"

Tycho's eyebrows rose. Was…was he _begging_ for the job? "Gabriel…"

"I can do math! Like…I mean, really easy stuff…like…Well, I can count pretty high! And I'll…I'll give you massages! Every day, if you want!"

"Gabriel, you got the job."

The brute grabbed Tycho's vest roughly, desperation clear on his face. "HOLY FUCK, WHAT DO YOU _WANT_ FROM ME? I WILL BE YOUR _SLAVE-WHORE_ FOR THIS…!" He trailed off as he realized what Tycho had said. "Wait, I did?"

"Y-yeah…"

"You don't need me to be your sl—"

"No."

Gabriel laughed awkwardly, releasing Tycho from his iron grip. "Heh heh…yeah…'cause, y'know, _neither_ of us would've liked _that_…heh…heh heh…" There was a profoundly awkward silence. "I…I'm gonna go home now."

"Yeah, you…you do that, Gabriel. I'll see you, um, soon."

"Cool. Um…thanks. For the job," he gave Tycho a nod, then walked over to the door and exited the agency. However, a moment later, his face poked through the hole. "Um…I can fix this."

"I got it," Tycho grabbed his ever-handy roll of tape and walked over to the battered window. He paused as he stood by the door, then gave a small smile. He punched through the newspaper, creating a new hole under Gabriel's. The dark-haired man outside looked up at him, head tilted not unlike a confused border collie.

"Was, uh…was that supposed to be getting back at me for earlier? 'Cause that really sucked if it was. Like, you didn't even touch me."

Tycho rolled his eyes.

"It's to shake," he explained, then smiled. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gabriel, and I heartily anticipate our inevitable, triumphant success."

A wide grin broke out on Gabriel's face, then took Tycho's hand in a bone-crunching grip, "I don't know what most of those words mean, but I am _definitely_ looking forward to kicking some ass!"


	4. Where There Are Startling Developments

A/N: Once again, J. Lucy-Daisuke is an absolute angel and saved me and you from horrible writing and bad grammar! Thanks and cookies are required on your behalf.

* * *

Tycho frowned as he looked down at the book in his hand. Would a thesis of Apocalyptics go before or after a tome of essays on Apocalyptics if he were going by subject?

"I'm _bored_. When are we gonna _do_ something?" whined the brute sitting in Tycho's customary chair. Tycho sighed and rolled his eyes. True, in the four days since he and Gabriel had become business partners, his daily bodily injury rate _had _substantially lowered. However, this man, this very Brute, had the attention span of a goldfish, and Tycho was running out of things for him to do to stay out of trouble.

"We will do something when we get a job," he patiently explained, placing the book in the bookshelf. He glanced over at Gabriel. "Why are you even here? It's Sunday."

Gabriel slouched in his seat and shrugged, "I dunno…I didn't have anything better to do." He shifted his feet, and his eyes widened as his chair swiveled slightly. Slowly, he did a complete circuit, obviously awe-struck. As he finished his rotation, his face split into a huge grin, and he soon became a spinning blur, with excited whoops occasionally escaping the one-man cyclone.

Tycho stared at the spectacle for a moment, then shook his head and returned to his books. Now…if the thesis went before the essays…then the arguments and counter-arguments would go…

He whirled around as a loud crashing noise came from behind him, shaking the paper still taped to the window frames.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, searching for the source of the hullabaloo. He quickly found it.

Gabriel was slumped on the other side of the room, eyes crossed and face stupefied. Tycho rubbed his temples; the idiot had launched himself from the chair. With a loud sigh, he walked over and helped his bearish associate to his feet.

"Okay, that chair? That's Tycho's chair. Only Tycho can sit in it," he said sternly. "That's a rule now."

Gabriel responded with a wide, dazed grin. "Hol'vvuck, didjoo see'ow fas' Iwus goin'?" he slurred as Tycho sat him down in the other, stationary chair. "Ffff-huck, Iwus likeuh ffuckin' _missile_."

"Yes, Gabriel. Exactly like a fucking missile. Now stay here and don't move. Don't blink. Don't even _breathe._"

Gabriel obediently sat, his only movement being his head kind of bobbing around. Did that mean he had a concussion? Was that bad?

Tycho shrugged. He'd be fine. Right? Right.

* * *

"Hey, Tycho?"

"Hm?"

It had been almost an hour since Gabriel's attempt at flight, and the Brute had been behaving himself quite nicely for a change. Tycho had worried for a moment whether he should take him to the hospital, but then decided that he liked the quiet. At the moment, his partner was doodling something on a piece of scratch paper.

"What's our name?" Gabriel asked, not looking up from his work.

"What's our _what_?" Tycho shut his book, confused.

"Our name. Y'know, like…what're we gonna call ourselves?"

"I…I'm not following…"

"Well, I sure as _hell_ am not gonna be part of 'Tycho Brayy, Parawhosit-inator.' That's dumb."

"First of all, it's pronounced 'Brah-hey'. Secondly, the name…" he trailed off, thinking about the name. Truth be told, "Tycho Brahe, Paranormal Investigator" really wasn't _that _great a name.

"Well…I guess it _is_ time for an updated company name…" the Scholar got to his feet and readied his pacing face. "What do you think we should be called?"

Gabriel's brow knit together as he erased, "I dunno… something like 'Gabriel and Brahe?' Detectives rock that shit all the time."

"Detec…Gabriel, we're not…" Tycho trailed off again. He was about to say that they weren't detectives, but…wasn't investigator another word for detective? He would have to consult his thesaurus. Admittedly, though, detective _did_ sound a hell of a lot cooler than investigator. Damn, Gabriel was two for two tonight.

"That's boring, though," he said finally, and began pacing around the room. True, it didn't really help him think, but _damn, _did he look smart when he paced, "Everyone has last names for their company…We need to be ground-breaking…Intense, y'know? But what?" he frowned, still thinking and muttering to himself from time to time.

However, he stopped when he glanced over Gabriel's shoulder. "What's that?" he asked.

"What, this? They're drawings," the ex-prize-fighter said nonchalantly.

Tycho leaned in for a closer look. There seemed to be a sort of theme going on; several of the drawings bore a remarkable likeness to himself in different forms of pain. In one, it seemed as though he were getting his skin burned off with acid; in another, a dinosaur (a Velociraptor, to be precise) seemed to be eating the lower half of his body; yet another had his nether regions being attacked by…Bats? It looked like bats. Tycho frowned; while he had to admit that Gabriel had a knack for drawing, he _did _wish that his partner had other inspiration.

He arched an eyebrow as he noticed an interesting design on the corner of the page. It looked a bit like an eye, with spokes coming out from it.

"Hey, what's this?" he asked, pointing to the doodle in question.

"That? It's an eye."

"Really?"

"Well, a really _cool_ eye."

"Hmm…the outside almost looks like a…I don't know…Gear or something." Inspiration suddenly hit him. "Gabriel, could you make those lines on the outside thicker?"

"Huh? I…I guess," Gabriel darkened the lines and filled them in. "Like that?"

"Yes, that's good," he squinted at the paper. "Maybe…maybe a lightning bolt. Right there…no, a little smaller…" He pointed to the right side of the eye, "Right here."

Gabriel glanced up at him, then shrugged and drew in a lightning bolt. He frowned for a moment, then filled in the rest of the eye. His dark eyebrows rose.

"Hot _damn_, that looks badass," he said, impressed by his own work.

"This could be our symbol…" Tycho murmured, mind already buzzing with possibilities.

Gabriel looked confused, "But…it doesn't look like us…well…" He squinted up at Tycho. "Your hair kinda looks like the eyelashes if you squint really hard."

Tycho shook his head, too caught up in the prospect of this awesomeness to form a snarky response. "No, no. It's what stands for the company. We can put it on the front door window—when we get windows, that is—on our business card…it'll catch people's eyes. We'll get customers!"

The dark-haired brute's brows drew together thoughtfully. "But…what does it stand for? Like, with the company?"

Tycho sucked his teeth, "I…I don't know yet. But I _will_ know by the time we get our first customer!"

Gabriel nodded in understanding and turned back to his paper. However, an idea seemed to hit him, and he looked back up at Tycho. "But…I don't get it…why would an eye with a lightning bolt and fucked up eyelashes make someone want to hire us?"

"Well, you said yourself it was badass, right?"

"Um…" Gabriel thought for a moment, then nodded resolutely. "Yes."

"Well, if something had a badass symbol, wouldn't you think the thing _with _the badass symbol was, by association, badass?"

"Yes. Wait, no! …Yes."

"So this makes us badass."

"Ohhh…" Gabriel nodded, then looked back up at Tycho. "But we still don't have a name."

Tycho sighed, "Yes, that's true." He crossed his arms and started pacing again, walking slowly from the Lightbringer to his desk and back again. "But what? We can't just have our names; that's boring as hell. But it needs to be something about what we do, without being _too,_ too cryptic. Hmm…paranormal investigators…we look for things out of the ordinary…Stranger Seekers? No, that's gay…" He frowned. "Have any ideas, Gabriel?"

Gabriel smiled proudly, "Shit Happens."

Tycho stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait…_what_?"

The Brute shrugged. "Well…it's what we do, right? Some crazy, mythologimical shit happens to someone, and they're all like 'Whoa! What happened?' And then they call us, and we fix it."

Tycho stared at his partner. "Gabriel…that…that is a _brilliant_ summary," he said, partially in shock at the fully coherent explanation. "However…I don't think 'Shit Happens' will sound very…_professional_. Hmm…"

Tycho began pacing again, "So…what are some other ways to phrase that? Something that leads to a…a startling development, I supp—" Tycho cut himself off as he realized what he had said. "Startling…Startling Developments. That's good. That's really good. Startling Developments…Startling Developments…" He said this a few more times, enjoying the musicality of the two words together. "Gabriel, say it! Doesn't it roll off the tongue?"

"Startling Developments…Star-tl-ing De-ve-lop-ments…" Gabriel stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes. "Thar'eling Thethelobennth…"

Tycho scowled. "Gabriel, _really_? Even _you _know better than to do that."

Gabriel glared up at him defiantly, "You're the one who said something was gonna roll off my tongue. I wanted to see it!"

Tycho stared at his colleague for a moment, then shook his head. "This doesn't surprise me. Things like this just don't surprise me anymore."

The dark-haired man was about to retort when a sudden sound like papers rustling filled the office. It took them a moment to realize it was the door. Both men looked at each other, and Tycho's eyes suddenly widened.

"A customer!" he whispered excitedly.

Eagerly, he rushed to the door and threw it open enthusiastically. Then he slammed it shut and opened it again, this time much more calm. A squinty-eyed, older man stood in the doorway, staring up at the Brahe with a very strange look and carrying a large heap of clothes.

"Hello…?" Tycho finally asked.

"Is this where the new laundry lady lives?" he asked, walking right into the agency. Tycho looked up at Gabriel, who shrugged.

"Um…no. No, sir. I…I think you got the wrong room," Tycho said, walking toward their unexpected guest.

The old man dropped his pile of laundry near an old sarcophagus, then, much to Tycho's dismay, proceeded to irreverently tap the ancient artifact. "You've got one of 'em fancy electric models, huh?" he asked.

"No! No, we don't!" Tycho rushed over to the sarcophagus and lightly ran his fingers over it, looking for damage. He then pressed an ear against it, listening for the foaming rages of the dark force within. He let out a sigh of relief as he was only greeted by silence, then whirled around, furious. "And you _almost woke a spirit of destruction!_"

The man, apparently not hearing Tycho, hobbled his way over to Gabriel. He squinted at the former prize-fighter for a moment, then reached up, grabbed his floppy hair and pulled hard.

"Ow! You sonuvvabitch!" he exclaimed, pulling back his hand to deliver a right jab.

"_Gabriel_!" Tycho hissed. "Gabriel, _no._ Down!"

Gabe, still looking pissed, glared at Tycho, then slowly lowered his fist.

"It's real!" the old man exclaimed, completely unaware of his near-death experience. He took Gabe's hand and patted it approvingly. "You're much better than the last girl, already. Less hairy." He smiled toothlessly up at Gabriel, still squinting. "Cuter, too."

Until that moment, Tycho had no idea that Murderous Rage could be completely embodied by a single person.

"YOU FUCKING SON OF A _BITCH_! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU RIGHT NOW WITH MY BARE FUCKING _HANDS!_" Gabriel grabbed the older man's arms and looked as though he were about to rip the poor man in half—which, Tycho realized, he probably was. While the man _was_ nearly unhinging the universe and insulting Gabriel's masculinity besides, murder was unnecessary and very messy, both in the literal sense and in terms of the law.

In desperation, he looked for a way to save their unwelcome guest from the enraged Brute. Quickly, he grabbed his brandy bottle and rushed up to Gabriel, smashing it over his head.

Gabe released the old man and stood for a moment, looking a bit like he did after his flight earlier. Then he collapsed to the ground, hopefully out cold and not anything worse.

Tycho sighed and looked at the stem of his bottle, the only part of it that was not now-dust on the floor. "Damn…" he murmured. "I liked this bottle."

He looked up at the old man—who was happily humming to himself—then huffed as he ran his hands through his hair.

"Sir. Sir? _Sir_," he said, hoping each time he would sound a little more civil. He didn't; on the contrary, his frustration became more apparent with each syllable. He took a deep breath. "Sir, this is most assuredly _not_ the laundress's house. If a laundress lived here, it would be. But since neither the bear-man down there nor myself are laundresses—laundressi?—it is not."

His guest looked at him hard for a moment. "This…this isn't the laundress's house?" he repeated. Tycho shook his head and sat on his desk.

"No. No, it's not. You see, we're paranormal investigators. My name is Tycho Brahe, and this—" he gestured to the motionless man on the ground. "—is my partner, John Gabriel. We look into mythological circumstances, and we're the guys people come to when…" Tycho searched for the right words.

"Shit happens…" came a slurred murmur from the ground. Tycho looked back down to the floor.

"Oh, good, you're not dead," he said, then returned his attention to his guest. "Basically, yes. When shit happens. However, we don't do laundry here, and I'm afraid we can't be any help to you. I will show you to the door, and I wish you _good day_." He got to his feet and walked over to the door, opening it wide.

However, the man made no movement, and his sparse eyebrows drew together in thought. "What did you say you boys look into again?"

Tycho groaned; was this man _ever_ going to leave? "Mythological circumstances," he repeated, raising his voice slightly. "You know, bizarre creatures? Ghosts? Mummies?"

"What do you know about birds?" the old man suddenly asked.

"Birds?" Tycho was dumb-founded. "I…I'm not much of a bird-watcher myself, but…"

"No, no, son. I mean _huge_ birds. With teeth…and beaks…and claws…and…" the old man's head started bobbing, and soon he began snoring. Tycho snapped to wake him up, and his bald head shot up. "And claws."

Tycho's eyebrows rose, and he smiled. "Now we're talking," he said approvingly. "Yes, that is _exactly_ what we look into."

The old man nodded approvingly. "Good. It eats a neighbor a week. We called the exterminator, but haven't seen him since he went to take a look. Nice boy, though. Named Carl."

"I'm sure…" Tycho said, grimacing at the thought of poor Carl's fate. He shook his head, then smiled at the man. "Well, sir, don't you worry. Despite our greeting earlier and the subsequent yelling, my partner and I are professionals, and we'll have that bird out of there in no time. How does the…day after tomorrow sound?"

"Sound for what?" the old man asked, staring up at him blankly. Tycho returned the stare.

"For…for getting rid of the bird."

"Oh, yes, that! Here, I'll give you my address," he pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and walked over to the window, where he proceeded to rip a large chunk of newspaper from the front door. Tycho watched, jaw dropped, as the man proceeded to write the address on the paper, managing to get ink blots all over the various important papers on his desk. After a moment, the old man finished and handed the paper to him, smiling.

"There you go, son. Pleasure doing business with you. Say…" He leaned close to Tycho, nearly hairless eyebrow arched, and nudged him feebly with an elbow. "You take good care of your girl, all right?"

"My…what?"

"I like 'er. She's a fighter, just like my ma was."

"I…there isn't…" Tycho's eyebrows rose. "You mean Gabriel?"

"Yeah, the one with the nice hair."

"No…no. You're mistaken; Gabriel is a _man._"

"Oh…" The visitor thought for a moment. "You boys gay?"

Tycho couldn't take it anymore; he let out a loud groan of frustration as he forcefully shoved their unwelcome guest out of the Agency. "No,sir,we'restraightithasbeenapleasure _Good day_!" he cried hurriedly, then slammed the door shut. After he heard the footsteps going down the stairs, he sank to the ground, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh of relief. After a moment, he ever-so-gently rubbed the slip of paper between his thumb and forefinger—just to see if it really was real—and smiled broadly.

"Ugh…what the hell happened?"

Tycho opened his eyes as Gabriel sat up, rubbing his head. "I hit you with the brandy bottle."

"Oh," Gabriel looked around. "Where'd the old man go?"

"He left. And guess what?"

Gabriel thought for a moment, then shrugged. "What?"

"This," Tycho grinned as he tossed the paper down on the ground, address side up. Gabriel picked it up and looked at it.

"The hell is it?" he asked after a moment.

"An address. In a neighborhood being attacked by a large bird of some kind, most likely a ropengryph or something of the like."

"And this is awesome because…?"

"This is awesome because it's an example of shit happening," he looked up at Gabe, who looked back at him, still confused. Tycho's grin widened as far as it could possibly go. "My friend, the Startling Developments Detective Agency has just gotten its first case."


	5. In Which We Meet Some Geriatrics

A/N-Before reading this chapter, you should know that it was QUITE a bit of a wreck. Luckily, J. Lucy-Daisuke came swooping to my rescue, and you now have a story worth reading before you. This is proof that she is AMAZING and deserves loads and loads of caramel. (Real caramel, not the imaginary kind.)

* * *

"So…why aren't we going to fight the bird _today_?" Gabriel asked. He had been wrapping and unwrapping his left hand for about an hour now, debating whether it was necessary for the upcoming case. "Why tomorrow?"

"Because we want to build suspense. That way, they'll pay us more," Tycho was rummaging through his desk, looking for bullets. Though he was more practiced with a traditional rifle, that tommy-gun that had broken his window was bound to be useful at some point tomorrow. He suddenly stopped as he saw something amber-colored shine from inside the drawer. Curious, he reached in and pulled it out, then held it up to the light. It was a dusty shard of glass with a "B" emblazoned right in the middle of it. He half-smiled as he realized it was a piece of the door's window. Funny, he didn't remember putting it in the drawer; it must have been a subconscious action.

"What's that?" Gabe asked, nodding up to glass.

"This?" Tycho shrugged. "Just a bit of the door's old window. Nothing special. I should probably throw it out." He sat down, turning the glass over and over in his hand. He let out a soft, short laugh, "You know, I always liked this glass."

Gabriel leaned his elbows on the table, head cocked. "Why? I mean, no offense or anything, but…it kinda looks like frozen pee."

"Since it's _you_ saying that, I guess I could see how one could think that. Anyway, it's more of a…a _sentimental_ thing, I suppose. It was the first thing I noticed when I got the place. And I'm certain it's prettier when it's actually clean."

He puffed a breath on the glass and began polishing it with his sleeve. He wasn't quite sure why he was even bothering; it really was just a piece of trash, and the Brahe clan had never put much stock in sentiment.

Gabriel had silently resumed his wrapping and unwrapping, though a thoughtful air had found its way into the action. After a moment, he said, "If you really want, you could probably buy a new window for the door when we get paid. Y'know, with the pee glass."

Tycho shook his head, still buffing the glass. "No. There are way more important things than nostalgia we need to invest in. Just normal windows will cost one, maybe two hundred. If we make them bullet-proof, it'll cost even more. And I highly doubt we'll get enough just by one case alone, especially with the bills added in. We should probably get a phone, too…"

Tycho sighed as he placed the shard on the table and tugged thoughtfully on a tawny chunk of hair that fell in front of his eyes. "How late is it getting? We'll need to get up early for tomorrow." He pulled out his pocketwatch and checked the time. "I thought as much. You should probably be getting home, Gabriel." He got to his feet and stretched, then looked down at his associate. The ex-prize-fighter was still wrapping and unwrapping his hand. He had an odd look on his face; if Tycho didn't know better, he'd think the Brute was actually _thinking, _"…Gabe?"

"I need to go," Gabriel said distantly, getting to his feet and heading to the door. Tycho stared at him.

"Are…are you all right?" he asked. This was weird. _Was_ there something on his partner's mind?

"Yeah, I'm fine. See you tomorrow," Gabe nodded at Tycho as he opened the door, his usual farewell.

"At six. Don't forget."

"I won't. See ya," with that, the Brute exited the agency.

Tycho frowned, slightly creeped out by Gabriel's exit. But after a moment, he simply shrugged and went to lock the door. On his way across the agency to the shabby little bedroom in the back, the shard of glass on his desk gleamed at him. He stared at it for a moment, thinking, then picked it up and carried it with him to his room.

There wasn't much in this room, just a few tchotchkes of an occult nature, a bed, a cracked washbasin, and a dusty mirror hanging above a small shelf. The mirror itself wasn't anything special; Tycho went days without even consulting his reflection. The only thing really noteworthy of it was the photograph tucked into the frame. It was taken at the Old Academy, and standing in the foreground was a man with an intelligent face half-covered by a full brown beard. Tycho glanced down at the glass in his hand, then back up at the photo. He repeated this motion a few times, then finally placed the glass on the shelf.

"Here," he said, nodding to the photo. "For you."

The photo didn't respond, and Tycho didn't expect it to. After all, a bit of glass didn't mean anything to a piece of photo paper, and the man in the picture was long dead. However, there wasn't anything criminal in paying homage to the dead. At least, he didn't _think_ there was.

Unless it was necromancy…. That wasn't cool.

Nonetheless, Tycho Erasmus Brahe collapsed into his bed that night feeling optimistic, as if his little offering might somehow lead to a success tomorrow, with many more to come.

Or he might have unknowingly angered some higher being, resulting with him being horribly mutilated in a very unpleasant manner. The kind that would have been a funny story if he survived, but isn't funny at all if he didn't.

Truth be told, he was really hoping for the former option.

* * *

"Okay, I'm freaking out right now!" Gabriel said as they walked down the street. "I am seriously freaking the_ fuck_ out right now!"

"Just keep walking and don't make eye contact," Tycho muttered. He had seen some serious shit in the mythology department ever since he was a lad, so he had been well-trained in keeping his cool. But he had to agree with his associate on one thing: old people were _creepy_.

The entire neighborhood was _full_ of them.

Old men hunched over, walking on canes and squinting around. Old women—in both morbidly obese and scarecrow-skinny varieties—sitting on wicker chairs, watching the two men suspiciously over their knitting. Maybe it was Tycho's gun that was drew the attention? He tried hiding it behind his back, which worked poorly, at best.

Gabriel, meanwhile, had either moved on or forgotten about the plethora of old people staring at the two of them. Knowing Gabe, he had probably forgotten.

"Oh, my _gaaaaaawwwwwwd…_" he moaned, rubbing his eyes. "It's so fucking _early!_"

Tycho looked back at him oddly. "It's seven-thirty, maybe eight. What time do you _normally_ get up?"

"I dunno. One? Two…?"

Tycho shook his head, "Well, you better get used to it. If this is a success, we're going to have a _lot_ more morning calls."

"Oh my _gaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwww—_" Gabriel was cut short as Tycho rammed his ribs with the butt of his gun.

"Hush your mouth!" he hissed. "We're here."

He smiled amiably to the little old man from yesterday hobbling down from the house in front of them. It was kind of nice, seeing him in his natural habitat. The old man gave them a toothless smile as he shook Tycho's hand.

"Nice to see you again, son," he said wheezily. "You've grown since the last time I saw you."

Tycho and Gabriel exchanged a confused look.

"Yessiree," the man continued. "I remember like it was yesterday…you runnin' around with yer little hobbyhorse in nothin' but yer birthday suit and a little cowboy hat!"

Gabriel snorted. Tycho sighed in exasperation.

"Sir…we're—" he started, but was cut off.

"And now look't ya! A nice young man with a pretty girl by yer side!"

Tycho shot a smirk back at Gabriel, who looked confused.

"He's talking about _you_," he explained to Gabriel with a smile.

"Oh…" the Brute said, then, after a moment, let out a low, growling-type noise. His hands turned into fists, and Tycho realized that he had about two seconds to save this man from death. _Again._

"Sir? Sir, I don't think we're who you think we are," he said quickly. "We're Tycho Brahe and John Gabriel. From the Startling Developments Detective Agency?" The man didn't respond, so Tycho added, "We're here to take care of your bird problem."

The old man seemed to be thinking this over, then his face brightened. "Oh, right! You're the two boys livin' in the laundry lady's house!" he exclaimed as he grabbed Tycho's elbow. He started leading him over to the house next door, "Here, lemme show you around the neighborhood."

Tycho struggled against his grip. "Really, sir, this isn't necessary. If you could just show me the nest or—"

Good _lord_! This man had a grip of _steel_! He turned around and frantically motioned to Gabriel—who was still standing in front of the client's house—to come help him out. The former prize-fighter stared at him, confused. Tycho huffed and nodded over to the old man, then made a punching motion with his free hand. Gabriel looked horrified and loped over to them.

"I told you I don't do that with guys!" he hissed. The Scholar simply stared at his partner before facepalming accordingly. Before he could reproach the other man, however, his captor loudly announced, "Hey! Hey, Wilhelm! It's the two boys I told you about!"

A man of equal or greater age than the one cutting off circulation to Tycho's arm peaked his head out of the window, an obscenely huge ear trumpet at his, well, _ear_. "Vhat? Vhat vas that, Farley?"

"The two boys! From the laundry lady's house!"

"Vhat two boys?"

"From the laundry lady's house!"

Tycho was starting to get impatient. His tommy-gun was still in his hand, and he was about two seconds away from going absolutely _nuts_ on this place.

"From laundry lady's house?" Wilhelm's bushy eyebrows rose. "Ohh! You mean vith the preetty vahn and the vahn vith the silly hair!"

Tycho frowned; his hair was _not_ silly.

"They're gonna help us with the bird problem!"

"Ohh!" Wilhelm hurried out of the house. Then again, hurried might not be the best term…a better might be "walked out so excruciatingly slow that Tycho wanted to gouge his own eyes out with a dull spork." Or something like that.

When he finally reached them, he smiled at the two men from beneath his massive, drooping moustache, "Oh, nice, strrrong boys. Nice to meet you." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a couple of brightly colored balls covered in lint, hair, and…something else. "Vould you like candy?"

Tycho tried to hide a grimace, "Uh…"

"Fuck _yes!_" Gabriel grabbed one of the spheres and popped it into his mouth excitedly. Tycho stared at him for a moment, then shook his head with a huff.

"Listen, if you want us to get rid of this bird, then we _really_ need to start…" Tycho started, irritation steadily creeping into his voice. But, once again, he was cut off by the man—Farley, apparently—waving over to two ladies on the porch next to Wilhelm's house.

"Meredith! Bertha! These are the two boys I told you about!" he announced. The two women—or, would they even _be_ women at this point of decay?—looked up.

"They're too skinny!" one said shrilly.

"Look at the hairy one's shirt! It's _indecent_!" shrieked the other.

"He needs a haircut, as well!"

"So does the other, as well as a natural color!"

"They're too young for something like this!"

"What happened to that nice boy? The one that came last week?"

"Oh, I liked him! I think his name was Carl…"

Enough was enough; Tycho finally snapped. He furiously yanked his arm out of Farley's grip and waved his gun in the air.

"_Listen_! I have a _fucking gun_ right now and I swear to God that I will go _fucking psycho_ on _**all**_of you right fucking _**now**_ if you don't shut the _fuck_ up! _And my hair is fucking natural!_" Tycho took several deep breaths, looking around the silent group with wild eyes. He stared at Farley, "You! Tell me where this fucking bird is. Right now."

Farley stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

"Oh, the bird! Why didn't you just say so? I woulda shown you a while ago!" he said brightly, then hobbled off.

Tycho stared at him, eyes wide and teeth clenched. Gabriel looked over at him, still sucking on his candy.

"…Um…you…you got a little froth there. Like, on your mouth…and chin," he said tentatively, gesturing to the general area where Tycho was frothing. "Like, right here."

Tycho turned his gaze to the Brute, then shoved the tommy-gun into his arms.

"Take this," he said gruffly as he wiped his chin on his sleeve, "and don't let me touch it until we get to the nest."

"Um, okay," Gabriel said, awkwardly adjusting it in his arms. "Why?"

Tycho took a deep breath, then started walking after the current bane of his existence. "Because, satisfying as it would be to blow his brains all over the fucking sidewalk, that won't get us windows. And I _really_ want those windows."

* * *

The nest wasn't in the immediate area; as it turned out, the bird swooped out from a cavern that just so happened to be in Farley's backyard. Rather convenient, actually, save for the fact that they more or less had to scale down into utter darkness. But it could have been worse.

"Good luck, boys!" old man Farley said to them as Gabriel passed the tommy-gun off to the Scholar. His normally squinty eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, wait! B'fore you go, should we be evacuated? Y'know, get out of the houses?"

Tycho, carefully tucking the gun under his arm before following Gabriel down into the cavern, shook his head.

"No," he said, looking up at him. "This should be easy; we'll let you know when we're done. Nothing to worry about, trust me."

With that, he nodded up at Farley, then began his descent into the precipice. It wasn't long before the only thing he could see above him was a chunk of blue sky surrounded by darkness. He sighed; had he known that the bird would be _under_ground, he would have prepared more. …Brought a rope or something. That would have been nice.

"This _sucks_," Gabriel announced after they had been scaling for about twenty minutes. Tycho sighed.

"I know. It's a good thing we're desperate."

"_You're_ desperate. I could get back on my feet in no time."

Tycho snorted, "Yeah? I'd like to see _that _happen."

"It totally could! Like, in a second!"

"Really? After the whole devil affair?" Tycho asked dryly. His arms were getting tired, as was the rest of him. "Gabriel, I'm going to be honest: you and I are in the exact same boat. We're _failures_."

"I'm not a failure!" Gabriel snapped. Judging from where his voice was coming from, Tycho guessed the Brute was a little below him. He sighed.

"If you weren't a failure, why else would you take this job?" he asked. "You _know_ there's no chance of a comeback for you."

Suddenly, something large whizzed by his head and smashed into the wall about an inch away from his left ear.

"Shut _up!_" Gabriel's voice was almost shrill with anger, and Tycho heard his partner's pace quicken. He froze.

"Gabriel? Gabriel! Slow down!" he shouted. He heard a crumbling sound come from below him and he hissed in a breath, "Holy shit…"

Without even thinking, he scaled down faster, almost recklessly, to keep up with his associate. "Gabe! If you go too fast, the wall will—!" He was cut short as a deafening crash filled the cavern, with Gabriel's scream just barely audible within the din. "_Gabe!_"

Tycho started to hurry down even faster than before, but all at once, his feet had nothing to support them. He tried to keep his grip on the rocks above him, but gravity had other plans. Soon he was falling helplessly into the darkness below, too startled to even let out a cry.

Though he couldn't see anyway, he squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the most-likely-fatal impact he was about to experience. God, what an _awful_ way to go. On an _extermination_ case? Really? If Tycho's father were still alive, he would—

He let out a cry of surprise and pain as he unexpectedly hit the ground. That was a lot sooner than he would have thought. He laid there for a moment, gasping in breaths and wondering whether he was alive or dead. Finally, as he became aware of his heart rattling around in his chest, he figured that he couldn't be dead. Not yet, anyway. That was good.

He tried to tell himself to move, to sit up, but he just couldn't bring the rest of him to cooperate. Freaking out promptly commenced. _Oh, my god,_ he thought frantically._ Oh. My. _God._ I'm paralyzed. I am fucking paralyzed and I will never be able to move again. I will be trapped down here for the rest of my life and Gabriel will be rotting next to me and I won't be able to _move_ and…shit. _Shit!_ Shit shit shit…!_

His morbid epiphany was suddenly cut short as a pair of strong hands roughly hoisted the Scholar to his feet. To his great surprise, he remained standing, which meant he definitely wasn't paralyzed. Tycho celebrated this moment with a loud whoop and victorious fist-pump—something that, if he was a character in one of his many books, would have been considered "out of character"…Unless, of course, it was set in an _alternate_ universe. However, the moment didn't last long; even though he was fairly certain nothing was broken, there was no doubt that every inch of his body was horribly bruised. That certainly _wasn't_ cool.

Nonetheless, he looked up to thank Gabriel—who was the only one who could have helped him up—and congratulate him on his improbable survival, but even in the dim light he saw the Brute loping away. He huffed, half in annoyance and half because he _really_ didn't want to run right now. But it looked like he had no other choice. Summoning up all his willpower, he began running painfully after his partner. After a few moments, he caught up with him.

"Gabriel! Gabriel, stop!"

"Don't talk to me, asshole," Gabriel responded, sounding a bit like a foul-mouthed five-year-old and quickening his pace. Tycho slowed, his body aching too much for him to run any longer.

"Gabriel!" he called. "I didn't mean what I said! I…I'm sorry, Gabe!"

Now, this was strange. Apologizing wasn't something he normally did, especially with people he had more or less just met. It was _especially_ rare that he did it sincerely. But, as he waited for Gabriel to respond, he had to admit that he really _did_ feel bad about his sharp words earlier, and this apology was an authentic one.

After a long moment, Gabriel turned around. His silhouette had its head cocked, and after another moment, he loped back over to Tycho.

"Really? _You're_ sorry?" he asked, sounding suspicious. Tycho held up his left hand in the Crownsign, meaning serious business.

"I swear I am," he said gravely. Gabriel made a disbelieving noise. "No, I really am! I'm making the Crownsign!"

"The what?"

"It means that I'm swearing it."

"Swearing what?"

"That I'm telling the truth."

"But why do you have to make the thingy…sign?"

"Because it's the goddamn Crownsign! It's just what you _do_ with it!"

"Well, I can't see it, anyway."

Tycho huffed. Obviously, he would have to resort to other methods to earn his partner's trust back. He thought for a moment, then grimaced as he realized what he had to do. With a sigh, he stuck his chin out. "Okay, y'know what? Punch me in the face."

"_What_?"

"You heard me. Punch me in the face. I'm giving you permission. This should prove whether I'm telling the truth or not, right?" He grit his teeth, _really_ not wanting to do this.

"…Okay…" Gabriel lightly brushed Tycho's face with a fist. Tycho's knees went weak with relief. It looked like the Brute wasn't going to go _all_ out on him. Oh, what a blessed, joyous—

_WHAM!_

Before Tycho knew what was happening, he felt himself being _blasted_ against one of the cavern walls at roughly eighty miles per hour. His jaw felt as though it had broken into a million tiny pieces, all of which were set ablaze with unholy fire. He wasn't sure, but he didn't think there had been dancing white spots blinking all over the cavern before his chin's _rendezvous_ with Gabriel's dukes.

"Oh, _shit!_" Gabriel cried. He sounded very far away as Tycho sunk to the ground. He thought his eyes were closing, but it was hard to tell with how dark the cave was. He heard some muffled footsteps coming from somewhere as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

"Goddamn…_Cockatrice…_"

Was that _him _slurring like that? He had heard it, but he didn't remember saying it.

All of a sudden, his head cleared as he was briskly slapped across the face. He blinked a few times, and regained his senses just as Gabriel was about to slap him again. He grabbed his partner's arm a moment before it descended, signaling that he was all right. Gabe nodded and helped him to his feet, then kept him steady as he tried to stand up straight.

"Okay, new rule," Tycho said thickly. "You…you can only punch me when I say you can. Or else you're fired. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"_Awesome._"


	6. In Which There Is a Matter of Deepcrow

A/N-As always, J. Lucy-Daisuke is an absolutely, amazingly fabulous beta-reader, and she is the one responsible for the fact that this is comprehensible and shorter than 10,000 words, much to the delight of many of you, I'm sure. That being so, you should be ETERNALLY grateful to her, much like I am :)

A/N (part II)-I usually don't like to put my opinions in my stories, especially in Author's Notes, but I'm noticing a severe lack of RSPD fics in, like, the whole world. Come on, guys! I can't be the only one! D:

* * *

It really is quite amazing what people do when they get desperate for money. Some people sell their bodies for uncouth purposes; others engage in horrid acts of middle-management. Still others decide to abandon conventional pleasures all together and live the merry, vagrant life of a neighborhood hobo.

At the moment, Tycho wished that he had chosen any of these options over what he was doing now.

It had been well over two hours since his apology to Gabriel, and he had felt every single second of it. The cavern was dark and quite possibly endless, not to mention the _something_ that dripped on him every few feet. Granted, it _had _been worse earlier; Gabriel had begun singing to "lighten the mood," and would not shut up until Tycho threatened him with thirty-seven bullets shot into his eye.

It must have been nearing the third hour of wandering when Gabriel, sounding a bit wearied, asked, "Hey…are we dead?"

"Well, I think we're one level above Hell right now, but no, we shouldn't be dead," Tycho responded. "Why do you ask?"

"'Cause I see a light up ahead. That's what happens when you're dead, right? You see a light at the end of a tunnel?" the shadow beside him gestured in front of them. Tycho looked up. Indeed, there seemed to be a reddish light up ahead. His eyebrows rose.

"Huh… Maybe _that's_ Hell," he mused, then shrugged. "Well, if it is, it's better than walking around here any longer. Let's take a look."

He quickened his pace, motioning for Gabriel to follow. It turned out that the light wasn't too far away, but simply was rather small. It was powerful, though, as it bathed the surrounding five feet with an eerie red light.

Tycho, using the light to his advantage, took a moment check himself for any lecherous creatures that might have secretly attached to him in order to feed on his life-sustaining juices. None were found, much to his pleasure. However, he could see dark circles budding all over his half-exposed arms, no doubt a result of his fall earlier that day. That was _not_ going to be fun tomorrow.

Gabriel, meanwhile, was examining the source of the light. It was a small chink in the wall, maybe around two square inches, filled with a glowing red liquid of sorts.

"What's this?" he asked, slowly inching his finger toward it.

"Gabriel…Gabriel, don't touch—!" Tycho was too late.

"_OW_!" Gabriel yelped in pain, quickly yanking his hand back and cradling it gently in the other. "_Fuck,_ my—holy _shit_, that—_nnghffFFUCK!_"

Tycho looked on, unsympathetic. "Yes, you see, what you just touched is called _magma_. Do you know what magma is?" Gabriel shook his head in the negative, tearfully sucking on his finger. "Then let me give you a science lesson. Magma is rock that has been melted in the middle of the Earth. And it's not melted like chocolate. It's melted at _a two-thousand-and-four-hundred fucking degrees Fahrenheit!_ So that's why you got an ouchie."

"_God_, you don't need to be such an ass about it," Gabriel muttered. "Let's just…let's just find this damn bird."

He stomped off, pouting again. Tycho shook his head. It was a good thing Gabriel had a natural death resistance; it looked like he'd need it for this job.

Tycho jogged up to his partner and, as he caught up, noticed other spots of magma around them, slightly illuminating the path. He almost immediately began musing to himself. "All right, so we're close to a magma flow. The bird must be close, then, and it must enjoy the warmth. But _what_ kind of bird would live near _magma?_ Maybe it's not a bird at all…it could be a dragon, I suppose…"

"Dragons are cool," Gabriel chimed in.

"On a normal day, yes, dragons _are_ cool. But this one will want to kill us, so let's hope it's _not_ a dragon. It could be a senmurv."

"A what?"

"It…it's hard to explain. Think of a bird-dog. On fire," Tycho noticed the magma chunks getting bigger; they must be getting closer. "Although…senmurvs don't typically eat people…so…I stand by my original assertion of a ropengryph."

Gabriel smacked his forehead. "Ugh…Can I…Can I just _stop _listening to you? Like, seriously."

Tycho was about to tell his partner that, if he valued his job and life, he would listen, but his tongue immediately froze as he saw a large opening up ahead. Without knowing why, he bolted up to it, then skidded to a halt as he reached it.

In front of him was a huge abyss, at the bottom of which was what could only be described as an ocean of lava. Slender rock columns held up large stone slabs, looking like a primitive Parthenon. One of these slabs formed a sort of bridge leading to a giant pile of sticks with smooth, speckled domes on top. Tycho gasped as he realized it was a nest. But…a nest like this…it was something only seen in history books dating back to the oldest of times, just after the Time before times.

"By the four below…" he breathed as Gabriel caught up.

"What?" his bearish associate asked before looking around. His eyes, irises reflecting the red of the magma, widened as they made a circuit of the area. "Hot damn…"

Before Tycho could reply, there was a loud rustling from inside the nest. Both men stared up in terror at the dark form rising in front of them, but the Scholar's eyes held a definite amount of awe as well. He had been expecting _something _rather rare; birds just didn't swoop out of the ground and eat geriatrics. But _this? _Never. He'd never _dreamed_ that he would get to see this magnificent beast in person.

_Deepcrow._

The creature flapped its mammoth wings and let out a loud, "_CAWKRAAAAA!"_ Its beak snapped viciously at the air, red insectoid eyes glittering in the low light.

"She…she's _beautiful_…" Tycho said reverently. "So…Majestic…"

"Yeah, that's great. Give me three minutes and we'll have 'er for dinner," Gabriel said, rolling up his sleeves and starting to make his way toward the nest. Tycho made a choked sort of noise and quickly pulled his partner back.

"_Are you insane?_" he hissed. "Deepcrow are _millennia_ old! This specimen is one of about five in the whole _universe_! Her species most likely watched the Earth being formed."

He looked back up at the Deepcrow as she tidied her nest. "Ohh…what a beauty. What a blessing!" he grinned at Gabriel. "We are probably the first mortals to see her in her natural habitat."

The former prize-fighter crossed his arms impatiently, "But what about the old people? Remember them? They're paying us. And you need windows."

Tycho's smile faded as he remembered why they had been sent down here in the first place, "Oh…right."

Gabriel nodded, "Yeah. So we need to start kicking some bird ass right now."

Tycho sucked his teeth, thinking frantically, "But…we _can't_ kill her…Gabriel, see those eggs? She's a _mother._"

To his great surprise, Gabriel's face softened, and he frowned. "I…I guess killing a mom _is_ kinda fucked up…"

"You see? So there _has _to be another way," Tycho began pacing back down the cavern a few feet, then back toward the magma abyss, trying to remember what he had learned about Deepcrow. He snapped as he had an idea, "Deepcrow are easily amused!"

"What?" Gabriel cocked his head.

"Yes! You see, while Deepcrow are among the Ancient Ones, they still are baffled by simple sleights of hand. We just need to do a magic trick!"

The Brute's brow furrowed, "Like what? Neither of us are wizards, last I checked."

Tycho scowled. "Wizards…Pathetic beings." He shook his head. "Anyway, we don't need a wizard. I'm a magician."

"No!" Gabe's eyes were wide in amazement. Tycho smiled.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Here, give me a coin."

Gabriel obliged. Tycho closed his fist over it and deftly hid it behind two fingers. He opened his seemingly empty hand, "Ta-da."

His trick was received with tiny applause from his partner, who promptly demanded that he make it reappear. Tycho reached behind the Brute's ear and did so. Gabriel was dumbfounded.

"You see?" the Scholar asked. "We'll just do that and catch her unawares. I've heard they give rides after being confused like this, so we'll ride her out and find her a good home." He turned to face the opening and sucked in a deep breath. "Now, if this _doesn't_ work, I'll need you to punch her, okay?"

Gabriel cracked his knuckles eagerly, "Fuck yes."

"And you'll need to be careful. If you break one of her eggs, she'll go into a murderous rage. That's bad, Gabriel."

The Brute nodded. Tycho readied his coin and his gun. He didn't want to shoot a Deepcrow, but he'd have no choice if the situation really got dire. Straightening his back, he started walking toward the nest, with Gabriel a few paces behind. The Deepcrow was tending to her eggs and didn't notice them. Tycho turned back to his partner.

"Do you think you can get her attention?" he asked.

Gabriel nodded and immediately put his thumb and forefinger between his lips to let out the most ear-splitting, hellish whistle Tycho had ever heard.

The Deepcrow looked up, snapping her beak as she saw the two men. With a loud _"CAWKRAAA!"_ she flew up out of the nest and started toward them. Tycho immediately started backtracking, running into Gabriel and almost flinging them both into the lava below. As the Brute regained his balance, Tycho held up the hand with the coin.

"All right…nice girl…_niiiice_ girl…Look! Look at the coin!" Duplicating the disappearing trick he had performed earlier, he opened his empty palm. Deepcrow cocked her head, ruby eyes blinking in wonder. She clicked her beak as she moved toward him, bewildered by the trick. "Yes…Yes, that's a good girl…Don't be startled by us…"

"Do we get on her back now?" Gabriel asked under his breath. "Do I get to punch her?"

"No, I think we're good on the punching," Tycho whispered back. "And she's not confused enough yet; let me have the coin reappear." He returned his focus back to the giant bird in front of him. "You want to see the coin come back?"

The beast clicked her beak again, getting even closer to Tycho. His hair grew heavy under her warm, moist breath; it was like being in a blood-scented sauna. He reached up on tiptoes to the side of her head to procure the coin, but he fumbled his footing and nearly went flying off the side of the stone bridge again. The good news was that Gabriel caught him in the nick of time; the bad news was that he dropped the coin into the inferno below and, since Deepcrow is actually a rather intelligent species, the bird found out that the trick was a hoax.

Well, that was fan-fucking-_tastic_.

Deepcrow flew into the air with a furious "_CAWKRAAAAAA!_" and immediately began strafing the two men. Both let out a scream and ducked as she swooped toward them, just barely missing her razor-sharp talons.

"Run to the nest!" Tycho yelled to Gabriel, who didn't need to be told twice.

Gabriel bolted over to the huge nest and dove inside, Tycho not far behind. The two paranormal investigators hid behind a massive egg, breathing hard. Out of his peripheral vision, Tycho could see a skeleton in what seemed to be an exterminator's uniform. He swallowed hard. _So,_ he thought. _That's what's become of Carl. Charming._

He glanced over at Gabriel, who was desperately watching him and obviously waiting for instruction. He was about to divulge his new plan when a loud screech filled the cavern, making them both jump. He swallowed again and tried to find his voice.

"O-okay, plan B," he whispered. "I'll try and get her close. You punch the shit out of her until she's out cold, and we get the old people the hell out of here."

"How are you gonna get her close?" Gabriel murmured.

"Well, when she sees me near her eggs, she'll get protective and try to kill me. I'll have my gun, so I can probably surprise her with a few shots. While she's surprised, you can punch her," he stared hard at his partner. "Now, Gabriel, this is of the _utmost_ importance. Listen to me; focus. _You cannot hurt her eggs._"

"I cannot hurt her eggs."

Tycho nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, "Good man."

There was another screech; they jumped. Tycho took a deep breath, then got to his feet. Slowly, he walked toward the middle of the nest. He realized, as he was trudging toward the center of this heap of twigs, that he could quite possibly die in the next minute. It wasn't as though this was new information, but still…not a pleasant thought, you know? He'd much rather be thinking about the last book he finished. It had been a good one; there had been a dragon in—

His thoughts abruptly stopped as he heard a swooshing of wings. Without even thinking, he unleashed a flurry of bullets into the air. A moment later, he heard a loud scream.

"Gabriel," he realized, then ran over to where his partner still was. "Gabriel! _Gabe!_" Gabriel was hunched over in pain. "Gabriel?"

"Nngh!" came the reply. "_Shit!_"

"What happened? Did she get you?"

"You shot me!" the ex-prize-fighter bellowed. "You shot my goddamn arm, you son of a bitch!"

Tycho stared at the other man for a minute, looking for any sign of serious injury, then sighed, half in relief and half in agitation, "You got in my way!"

"You weren't even aiming!"

"You still should have had better sense than to—wait…" Tycho trailed off, glancing around. Gabriel, gripping his bleeding arm, stared at him oddly.

"What the f—"

"Shh…_listen._"

The two partners stood in silence for a moment, listening. Every few moments, Gabriel would let loose with a few hushed curses, but other than that it was completely silent. No ruffle of feathers, no snaps of a toothy beak. Total, complete silence. Total, complete silence that _shouldn't be happening_. Slowly, Tycho searched the cavern for their target; she was nowhere to be found.

"Did…did you kill it?" the Brute asked softly. Tycho shook his head.

"No…a few bullets wouldn't hurt her. And even if I did, we would have heard it."

The bloody glow from the magma below glinted off Gabriel's eyes as they widened, and, ever so softly, he whispered, "Then…where is it?"

_"CAWKRAAAAAAAA!"_

The Deepcrow swooped down at them, beak wide open as she prepared to tear them to pieces. Both men screamed and dove away. Tycho blasted bullets after her as he yelled to Gabriel, "Punch her! Punch the fucking bird, Gabriel!"

Gabriel quickly got to his feet and into his fighting stance. With as much force as he could muster, he swung his arm around toward the bird. The Deepcrow, still focused on trying to eat Tycho, didn't see him and was caught completely off-guard as Gabriel's fist collided with her side. She was thrown over the side of the nest, shrieking in a panic. Gabriel grinned in triumph.

"Yeah, what now, bird?" he yelled over the side of the nest. "And that was _with_ a shot arm!" The Brute pumped the air excitedly, not noticing when his elbow nudged one of the eggs. That egg tilted over to knock over another egg, which knocked over another egg. Tycho saw what was about to happen, and he ran over to the last egg, pressing his back against it to keep it from falling over.

Unfortunately, Deepcrow eggs are fragile. When the second-to-last egg tipped into it, the pressure between the domino effect and the Brahe effect caused it to more or less explode. Tycho froze in horror, and not simply due to the fact that he was now covered in Deepcrow fetus. He whirled around to glare at Gabriel, who slowly lowered his arm.

"You…fucking…_idiot_," the Scholar hissed between his teeth. "You…"

Whatever he had to say was drowned out by an eardrum-shattering, soul-tearing screech. A black blur full of righteous fury whirled around the nest, shrieking like a banshee. Rocks fell from above with thundering cracks, and Tycho dove into the sticks and debris of the nest to avoid being crushed to death. He couldn't recall a time when he was this angry, or, at the very least, this angry with a specific person. And, as he hid from the rainfall of stalagmites, he even tried to send his anger out in waves that would hopefully blast Gabriel out of existence.

From his shaky hideout, he heard a great _whoosh_ of wings and the final _plops_ of rocks falling into the magma lake below them. Then, silence. Tycho waited a moment, then pushed his way out of the twig and bone mini-cave. He looked around the cavern, and he felt his stomach drop to his feet.

Complete destruction, everywhere. The eggs were now a mess of slop and broken shells that covered the bottom of what used to be the nest. Several of the stone columns had toppled over into the lava below; through new holes in the ceiling of the cavern, he could see chunks of blue sky. Miraculously, the bridge leading back into the tunnel was still intact, giving him a way out.

He grabbed his tommy-gun and started for the bridge. No sign of Gabriel; maybe he fell into the pit below. At the moment, Tycho didn't really care where the Brute was so long as he wasn't near _him._ Midway through wading through liquefied baby Deepcrows, he heard a sound like twigs snapping. He turned around, wondering if perhaps one of the eggs had survived and, as a result of the recent trauma it had endured, was hatching prematurely. Of course, that would have been a miracle, but it was worth a look.

"Uh…are you alive? Tycho?"

It turned out to be a miracle after all; the very _last_ miracle Tycho wanted to see right now.

The idiot had survived.

"Well, whoop-dee-fuckin'-_doo,_" the Scholar hissed.

Gabriel looked around the wreckage with wide eyes, looking totally surprised at what had transpired. The sleeve of his shot arm was soaked with blood, and his black hair was weighed down with chick-juice. He met Tycho's eyes hesitantly, looking a bit like a dog that had just been caught peeing on the sofa.

"I…I'm sorry…" the Brute said quietly. "I…I didn't mean…"

"_Don't_," Tycho gave him his most searing glare. "I don't want you to talk to me. I'd rather if you never talked to me _ever again._ So you shut your fucking mouth and save your goddamn apologies for someone who actually _wants_ to hear you."

He whirled around and jumped down from the nest, walking briskly across the bridge to the tunnel. He heard Gabriel's thudding footsteps follow, hurrying to catch up to him.

"Listen, I get that you're mad—" he started, but Tycho quickly cut him off.

"Oh, I'm mad? I didn't notice."

"You don't need to be such a dick about it! I mean, honestly—"

Tycho stopped dead in his tracks, but he didn't turn around. His free hand clenched into a fist, and, as icily as possible, he said, "Gabriel, I'm going to be frank with you. I wish, I wish with all my very being, that you had fucking _died_ back there."

That shut the other man up.

With a minute movement of his head, he glanced back to look back at Gabriel. The ex-prizefighter's mouth hung open, and, if Tycho didn't know it was physically impossible, he would have thought someone had slapped the Brute across the face.

The Scholar whipped his head forward again and started walking. He had to admit, what he had said was pretty harsh, even for Tycho. There was a possibility that, improbably as it sounded, Gabriel's feelings might have been hurt. But that didn't matter. As of right now, Tycho meant every word he had said.


	7. In Which There Are Housing Arrangements

A/N-Truth be told, I wanted to keep you guys waiting a couple more weeks before posting this chapter (This bad boy's been done for a couple of weeks, now.) But I'm too nice for that XP. Anywho, this is the penultimate-which is a fancy word meaning "second to last", and which you should totally use in an essay-chapter for "Startling Developments". So, yeah...I think we can all say it together: "J. Lucy-Daisuke, you are freaking AMAZING and have saved us all from awkward spacing and unmentioned environments! We owe you pies!"

* * *

Not a word passed between the two on their entire trek back to the opening of the tunnel. Nor was anything said on the climb back up above ground. It was well into the night by the time they reached Farley's backyard, but even so, the damage was still abhorrently evident.

The houses had all been reduced to rubble. Body parts littered the lawns and blood ran into the gutters. It was safe to say that the entire block was now dead because of their mishap.

"Oh, _shit_," Gabriel said, the first words he had said in several hours. Tycho didn't speak; he had known exactly what would happen as soon as the egg broke. He merely shook his head and headed back toward the Agency. Thoughts buzzed around in his head on the way back, making his blood boil and his pace quicken. Soon he was practically bolting down the street, focusing on getting to the Agency so he could get his anger out. If it wasn't against the law, he would have just opened fire on the suburb he was running through now, with Gabriel being the first target on his list.

Finally, he saw the building he was looking for and ran full-speed toward it. He threw open the door (he hadn't locked it this time), and hurried inside before shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, the slime still in his hair dampening the paper window, and he let out a scream of rage.

That felt good; he did it again.

One more time.

There we go, now he was feeling a tiny bit better.

He pushed himself away from the door and stumbled over to his desk, yanking out drawers until he found his supply of Lightnin' Juice. Whatever the screaming couldn't get rid of, alcohol surely could.

He had just downed his first bottle and was reaching for his second when the doorknob slowly turned. Tycho looked up, tensing automatically. The door swung open, and the Scholar let out a few choice words when he saw who was standing there.

Gabriel didn't show any reaction, but hurried over to the desk, holding his hands up defensively. His bleeding arm was wrapped up with a strip of bloody cloth that looked as though it was torn from his sleeve. "I know, I know, you don't want to see me, but—"

Tycho wasn't about to hear what he had to say; he had had enough of that today. Furiously, he slammed his hands down on the desk, "Are you _happy_, Gabriel?" he shouted. "Are you _happy_ that you ruined my _one chance_ at redemption?"

At this, Gabriel shrunk back slightly, "I said I was sorry…"

" '_Sorry'_? Oh, yes, how _could_ I forget 'sorry'? I must be an even bigger moron than _you_ to have forgotten that completely useless sentiment!"

For the first time since the egg incident, Gabe's prize-fighter nature came back almost one hundred percent. His hands clenched into fists, and he looked ready to give Tycho a one-two to the jaw, "Who're you calling a moron, you son of a bitch?"

Tycho let out a mocking laugh, "Oh, believe me, Gabriel, you are the _biggest _moron I have _ever _had the displeasure to meet! That's the only reason you're still here!"

"….What…?" Gabriel lowered his fists, looking confused.

"You were what I was looking for! A complete idiot who solved everything with violence! That is the _only_ reason I hired you! Oh, and I didn't just pick any idiot, oh, no…I picked the fucking _king_ of all idiots! Aren't I so fucking lucky? Believe me, if I had a choice, you would be out of here so fast your head would spin right off your goddamn neck. But, no, I'm stuck with you because you're the _only_ person in New Arcadia stupid enough to associate with a Brahe these days!"

He half-expected a retort from Gabriel, but none came. That was fine by him. He sunk into his chair, holding his head.

"And to think, I've been to Oblivion. I've seen where everything ends and now I'm expected to bring the end of the Long Project! But no…all I can do now is make a mockery of the name Brahe. As if there isn't already mockery enough! If my grandfather, my uncle…my own _father_ could see me now…What I've had to resort to…" Tycho trailed off and shook his head.

Slowly, he looked up.

Gabriel was still standing across from him. He looked absolutely shell-shocked; his lips were parted without any intention to speak, and his large eyes were wider than normal, reflecting some odd emotion. Hurt, maybe? That alone was unusual; what was more unusual was that Tycho wasn't deriving any joy out of that expression despite the fact that he would have loved to see that exact face just a moment earlier. He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Gabriel, just…just go home," he said finally, closing his eyes.

After a moment of silence, Gabriel murmured, "I can't…"

Tycho huffed. "_Why_, Gabriel? Why the _hell_ can't you go home?" he blustered, though he now sounded more tired than angry.

Gabriel didn't reply, but instead dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash made slightly crunchy from the egg slime. He took a moment to make sure he had it all, then placed it on the desk. Tycho stared in disbelief.

"This…what…?"

Gabriel, awkwardly rubbing his arm, shrugged. "I thought you could, like, buy some windows…or something. 'Course, I thought we'd have the money from the case, too."

Tycho stared down at the money, jaw more or less dropped in disbelief. Slowly, still not quite believing this was real, he took the bills and began counting. Gabriel shifted his weight back and forth several times while the other man counted, looking at the ground. Finally, Tycho looked up at him.

"This…this is almost a thousand dollars," he said, stuttering slightly. Gabriel nodded, still not looking at Tycho.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"But…but _how?_"

The former prize-fighter shrugged slightly, "Well…I sold my apartment."

"You sold your…You sold your _apartment_?"

Gabriel nodded, "Yeah. Some guy gave me a good price."

"But…but what could _possibly_ have possessed you to have you sell your home?" Tycho asked incredulously. Gabriel bit his lip.

"Well…You said we needed windows, so…I did the first thing that popped into my head. I think there's enough there that you could even get those pee-windows you like," he shook his head. "Anyway, I think you're still mad at me, so…I'm gonna go." He turned and started walking toward the door.

Tycho stared after him, looking hard at the other man for a moment. Suddenly, his mouth twitched, and he found himself grinning. A giggling sort of noise escaped his mouth, which gave way to more noises, until he was laughing hysterically in his seat.

Gabriel, who was at the door, whirled around and stared at the Scholar, who was beginning to hiccup from laughing so hard.

"Oh, shit, he's lost it," he muttered to himself. He hurried over to Tycho. "What is it? What's so funny?" he demanded.

Tycho snorted loudly before he found a voice to answer. "That…that…that's so _stupid!_"

"What?" Gabriel was indignant. "What the fuck do you mean? I thought that was pretty damn selfless!"

Tycho wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "Perhaps, but you've only known me, what? A week? And because of a comment I made on the windows, you sold your house on a whim? We… We could've sold some of these things, or taken some side jobs…" he let out another loud guffaw. "You're so _stupid!_"

Gabriel frowned; he'd had enough with these "stupid" comments. Reaching across the table, he roughly grabbed Tycho by the collar and pulled his arm back, ready to knock the living daylights out of the other man, "Listen, you bastard! If you make one more comment about how stupid I am, I'm going to knock your fucking teeth to Timbuktu! You got that?"

Tycho let out another manic giggle before covering his mouth, trying to both stifle his laughter and protect his teeth, "Yes, yes, I got that. It's just…hee…forgive me, it's just that _no one_ in their right mind would have done that."

Gabriel frowned and pushed Tycho away, then crossed his arms. "Yeah? Well, you don't seem all together yourself."

Tycho stopped mid-chuckle. _Oh, god…is it starting?_ He thought in horror. _Am I…? No, not 'til later. I can't be losing it now…_

Gabriel, oblivious to Tycho's change in demeanor, continued, waving his hand in the air, "I mean, seriously. Oblivion? What the _fuck_?"

The Scholar sank into his chair, holding his head. He was partly relieved, but mostly horrified. "Oh, god…I said it out loud, didn't I?" he muttered, then bit his lip. "Gabriel…what I said? About Oblivion? You…you don't need to know that. No…_No _mortal _should_ know that. I mean, I know that, but…"

Gabriel held up his hands, signaling for the other man to stop, "Okay, woah. Just…Just _stop._"

Tycho obliged and stared up at his partner, who was giving him an odd look. The Scholar winced. Great, his explosion earlier didn't scare the Brute off, but it looked like the Long Project was about to. Bringing the end of all things _was _a daunting task—and a little hard to believe, besides—so he couldn't really blame him. But, _still_…even he had to admit, having the camaraderie, no matter how slight it was, had been sort of nice.

He sighed and crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. "So? Now what?" he asked.

Gabriel stared at him hard for a moment, his mind obviously struggling to form a coherent thought. Finally, he said, "You're fucked up."

Tycho frowned and looked down. "I figured you'd say something like that." He swiveled back and forth in his chair, feeling a bit dejected. "You know, I don't blame you for leaving. I mean, it's bad enough having to deal with Deepcrow and shit like that, but…"

"Woah, wait a second. Who said I was leaving?"

Tycho's head shot up, and he gave Gabriel a confused look. Gabriel was wearing one to match, though it seemed directed at himself.

"Did _I_ say that? I don't think I did. Well, I _have_ said a lot of shit without meaning to…" he muttered to himself. Tycho rose to his feet.

"Wait. Gabriel, focus. Look at me." The Brute looked up at him, and he continued, "You just said that I was fucked up."

"Well, _yeah._ You are. Like, really fucked up. I get that. So I'm not gonna ask any questions," Gabriel shrugged. "But…I'm kinda stuck with you, right?"

Tycho cocked his head. "What?"

"Well…I was thinking about what you said. Y'know, when we were climbing down the cave? About me being a failure?"

"Gabe, I told you I didn't mean…"

"But you're right," he shrugged. "I mean, it was a big loss. People are still mad about it. So…I have to wait one, maybe two seasons until I go back to the ring." He uncomfortably fiddled with his make-shift bandage. "So…this is, like, my only option. So I'm not leaving. The end."

Tycho met his partner's eyes curiously. While he had never actually played cards with him, he figured that Gabriel didn't have a particularly good poker face, and as of right now the Brute's expression was completely honest. He half-smiled.

"So you're not leaving," he repeated. "Good. That's good." He arched an eyebrow as he looked at Gabriel's arm. "You know…you really should get something done about that."

"What, this? Nah, I've had worse."

"You…you've had _worse_ than being shot in the arm?"

"I punch a _lot_ of shit," Gabriel stretched. "Anyway, I oughta get going. It's pretty fuckin' late, and I need to be finding a spot to spend the night. All the good ones get taken around now."

Tycho's brow furrowed. "You're sleeping on the street?"

Gabriel shrugged, "Well, yeah. I mean, I sold my apartment."

The Scholar frowned, then pushed the small pile of bills toward Gabriel. "The windows can wait."

Gabe shook his head. "Nah, you don't need to do that. I know my way around, and I can punch a hole right through a hobo if I wanted to."

Tycho grimaced; that was _not_ a pleasant mental image, "But…is there really no way of getting your apartment back?"

"I dunno…the guy _really_ wanted it," he dark brows drew together as he put on his thinking face. "I mean, I guess I could kill 'im…"

"No, no. Gabriel, we don't need to kill anyone," an idea struck Tycho, but he wasn't sure how to proceed. It probably wasn't the _smartest_ one he had ever had, but it was nice, certainly. If he was a Girl Scout, he probably would be getting a badge for it. "How about… How about you stay here?"

"What?" Gabriel had traded in his normal confused look for the deluxe model.

Tycho began walking around the room, thinking of how this could work as he spoke. "Well…yeah. I mean, it's not very big, but there's a bedroom back there. I suppose one of us could sleep in there every other night, and the other person could sleep in the chair. It wouldn't be very comfortable, but we could get by," he shrugged. "After a few cases, we could probably fix it up a little. Y'know, make it a little more hospitable. It doesn't have to be permanent; if you ever decide to get back in the ring, you can go get your own place. But, since we're both more or less broke right now, we can manage here," he looked over at Gabe. "What do you think?"

The Brute looked thoughtful, then asked, "Can I bring my punching bag?"

"Certainly."

Gabriel thought a moment longer, then grinned broadly, "Then we got ourselves a deal!"

Tycho smiled. "Excellent." He looked around the room. "I would say I was going to make preparations, but we really are stuck with what we have here." He motioned toward the bedroom door. "You use the room tonight. I'll stay out here. I have some things I need to work on anyway."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Gabriel said, suddenly looking very tired as he walked into the bedroom and shut the door.

Tycho sighed as he plopped down in his chair, starting to feel the aches and pains from the day creep into his muscles. He pulled out another bottle of Lightnin' Juice and uncorked it, drinking it slowly as he went through his normal routine of running through the day's case.

In all, it was an absolute failure. The whole block had died, the Deepcrow was now wandering through the world looking for victims, and they were definitely not getting paid. On top of this, he had shot his partner and was looking forward to excruciating pain come tomorrow. _And_ he now had a roommate, which meant more work for him. He would have to set up a chore chart or something.

But it looked like he was finally going to get some new windows. So, as he finished off his drink and closed his eyes for a few precious hours' sleep, Tycho Erasmus Brahe guessed that today would count as a success.

Or something close to success, at least.


	8. In Which We Finally Get Some Windows

A/N-Well, my friends, here it is. It's over; _c'est fini._ I really hope you've enjoyed these startling developments, and I can't thank you all enough for your wonderful reviews! (And for getting me off my lazy arse to write this chapter...) And, of course, we absolutely MUST thank J. Lucy-Daisuke. I don't know how she does her magic, but she's really the one who's made this readable, and if you don't say thank you to her...well, that Deepcrow's still around somewhere, last I heard...

* * *

"Okay, okay…gently now, Gabriel…gently. Gently. _Gently, _Gab—_oh, my god!_"

"Shut _up._ I've got it," Gabriel responded in an easy tone that made Tycho even _more_ nervous.

The Scholar blew at the chunk of tawny hair that fell in front of his eyes as he maneuvered the amber-colored window toward the door. He couldn't help freaking out; he had missed having windows, and _dammit,_ he wanted this to be in one piece.

"So why didn't you get professional window…putter-inners?" the Brute asked as they carefully placed the glass in the door. "I mean, we've got enough now to pay for them, right?"

Tycho took a moment before answering to make sure the window was secure in the door. He smiled as he backed away, looking admiringly at the window, and then glanced over at Gabriel.

"Because I didn't want them to fuck this up," he said, returning his gaze to the window. Gabe shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at the window as well.

"It _does_ look pretty badass," he agreed.

Somehow, they had managed to find nearly the same glass that had been shot out of the door almost three weeks ago. However, instead of "Ty ho Br h , Par orm l nv tigat r" emblazoned upon it, there was now a large picture of an eye with gear-like eyelashes and a lightning bolt within the iris. Arching above and below the eye, in large block letters, were the words "Startling Developments Detective Agency".

In all, it looked pretty legit.

Tycho gave the door a once-over, making sure the window wasn't going anywhere. Then, carefully, he opened the door. The glass didn't budge, so he contentedly went inside the Agency. His partner followed, heading straight for the step-ladder in the middle of the room to resume his earlier task of securing his punching bag to the ceiling.

"Not a bad day, huh?" he asked, picking up his screwdriver and looking over at Tycho. The Scholar shrugged, a faint smile quirking up the ends of his usually down-turned mouth.

"No, not at all. I'd even venture to say it was…_remedial_," he said, digging in one of his drawers for two bottles of Lightnin' Juice. He had _almost_ bought some decent liquor. He had come _this close_. But Gabriel had insisted on a record player, and, since it _was _the Brute's money, he couldn't argue with him. Plus…the record player _was_ kinda cool.

Gabriel's head tilted to the side, and his dark brows drew together as he frowned, "We talked about big words, Tycho…"

"You don't like them, I know. _Remedial_ means to remedy—much like this Lightnin' Juice, it cures what ails ya," the Scholar tossed a bottle over to his partner, who caught it deftly as he jumped off the ladder. Both men uncorked their bottles, and Tycho held his in the air.

"Let's have a toast," he proposed, "to our grand re-opening."

"To kicking some supernatural ass!" added Gabriel proudly.

Before either of them could take a drink, their newly-installed phone rang loudly throughout the Agency. Both Tycho and Gabriel jumped, unused to the noise. For a few more rings, they simply stared at the communication device. Gabriel finally glanced up at Tycho.

"Answer it," he said.

"What?" Tycho was only dimly aware of Gabriel's having spoken to him, still caught up in the fact that _someone_ was actually calling the Agency.

"Answer it. Y'know…" the ex-prizefighter made a nudging motion with his free hand. "You're good with…With words and stuff."

Tycho, never taking his eyes off the phone, nodded and slowly picked up the receiver. With a cautious, almost shaky voice, he said, "Startling Developments Detective Agency, Tycho Brahe speaking."

"Um…hello," came a quiet, slightly nervous-sounding voice that he guessed was a young woman. "This…this is the Tycho Brahe from the advertisement, right? The paranormal investigator?"

Tycho's eyebrows rose, and his eyes slid over to his partner. Gabriel was looking at him intently, and the Scholar smiled. In a moment, though, he was all business.

"Yes, you're right. I'm assuming you have a problem of a mythological nature?"

"Yes, I do, actually. You see, we have an enormous snake living in the sewers beneath my neighborhood, and it's already caused three of the houses on my block to cave in. I was hoping you could come take a look?" the young woman's voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm willing to pay quite a large sum, you see. This is my third house in the past two years, and I want this one to last a while."

"Oh, of course, of course. Before we continue though, I must consult my partner. If you'll hold for just one moment, Miss…"

"McIntyre. Lisa McIntyre."

"If you'll hold, Ms. McIntyre. This won't take a moment," Tycho covered the mouthpiece of the phone and looked up at Gabriel, a wide grin on his face.

"So? Is it a job?" the Brute asked expectantly.

"Yes. And from the looks of it, a good one."

"Fuck _yes_."

Tycho wrinkled his nose, "Well, don't get too excited. She said there's a big snake in sewers. My vote's on a basilisk, but maybe a little less deadly. It'll be rough work either way, though."

Gabriel frowned, thinking, "Well…will I be able to punch it?"

"Yes, but…odds are it'll be covered in shit. Like, literal shit."

"Oh… Gross."

"Yeah. You up to it?"

Gabriel thought for a moment, then grinned, "I've punched hobos, and they're covered in _way_ worse stuff than shit."

Tycho nodded in agreement. "Right. So we'll do it, then," he said, then smiled a little. "Looks like we've got our first case."

Gabriel cocked his head, "_First_ case?"

"Last one was practice."

"Ohh…right," Gabe said with a wink.

Tycho took a deep breath, then put his mouth back by the receiver, "Hello?"

"Mr. Brahe?" came Ms. McIntyre's voice on the other end.

"Ah, good, you're still there. Well, Ms. McIntyre, we are more than willing to help you with this…Ah…Predicament."

A sigh of relief sounded over the receiver, "Oh, good. I was beginning to run out of options, but then I saw your ad. Do I need to make an appointment?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, madam. Now, if you'll be so kind as to give me your address…" he fished out a piece of paper and a pen to scribble down the address.

"Oh, of course."

She dictated her address (slowly and clearly, much to Tycho's delight), and the Scholar wasted no time in taking it down. In the few seconds it took to write the few numbers and letters, an uncharacteristically huge grin formed on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel bouncing expectantly, his blue eyes wide and his fists balled in anticipation.

After blowing on the paper to make sure the ink was dry, Tycho continued, "Thank you, Ms. McIntyre. Would this Tuesday be a good time?"

"Oh, yes, of course! Thank you so much, Mr. Brahe."

"Not at all, madam. After all, here at Startling Developments, it is our duty to tread, without fear, into the whispering dark. We shall see you Tuesday. Good day."

Tycho slammed down the receiver, grinning broader than he had in _years_. Gabriel, meanwhile, let out a large whoop while fist-pumping hard enough to create a small hurricane in the office.

"Fuck _yes_, man!" the Brute cried, ignoring the papers flying about the room. Tycho laughed.

"Gabriel, I could not agree more." He picked up his bottle of Lightnin' Juice. "I believe, my friend, that we need to add to our toast. To our bright future!"

"To shit-covered sewer snakes!" Gabriel added.

"And to the Startling Developments Detective Agency!"

At this, both men took a long swig from their bottles. Well, to be honest, _Gabriel_ took a long swig; Tycho, meanwhile, downed the whole thing in roughly two seconds. The Scholar grinned widely as he slammed the empty bottle onto his desk.

"Not a bad day, was it?" he asked, looking over at his partner. His grin turned into a look of confusion as he noticed Gabriel's dazed look. "Gabriel?"

Gabriel didn't make a sound, but rather stumbled about for a moment or so before collapsing to the ground with a very loud _thud_. Tycho gasped in surprise, then quickly strode over to his friend's side.

"Gabriel? Gabe? _Gabe?_" he asked, shaking Gabriel's broad shoulder. Noticing the half-empty bottle of moonshine beside the Brute, he picked it up and carefully examined it. Nothing _looked_ wrong; he sniffed the mouth of the bottle before tentatively taking a sip. It didn't taste like there was any poison in it. He would know; the Scholar seriously knew some shit when it came to poison. Before he could surmise anything else, though, Gabriel let out a snore loud enough to shake the newly-installed windows.

Tycho, initially caught off-guard by the horrendous noise, suddenly let out a loud laugh. He got to his feet and walked back to his desk, shaking his head with a grin. Now that he thought about it, he never saw Gabriel so much as sip any of the "brandy" when they had first met, nor any alcohol since then. Even so, he _never_ would have guessed that the Brute couldn't hold his liquor.

He flopped down in his chair, swinging his long legs up onto the desk as he grabbed another bottle of moonshine. He looked down at the bottle, rolling it back and forth in his hands as he thought. He had a partner… It was kind of weird. The last time he had worked with anyone—really, _interacted_ with anyone besides Anne-Claire—was back before his father was admitted to Cloying Odor. The Brahes had always been an uncommonly exclusive clan, and, to be honest, Tycho half-believed that he might have somehow broken an unwritten rule by bringing Gabriel into the business.

The Scholar lifted his eyes to look over at the unconscious ex-prizefighter. In keeping with his bear-like appearance, Gabriel sounded a bit like a wounded grizzly as he snored. Tycho let out a small laugh as he shook his head again. Gabriel was an _idiot_; there was no way in hell he'd be able to figure out the Long Project Tycho had inherited. And there was no need for him to figure it out. This was Tycho's problem, and he intended to go about it by himself.

The Scholar sighed as he let his head fall back, closing his eyes.

So.

He had a partner, and a business to go with it. Granted, their first case had ended with much blood, gore, and an angry, millennia-old bird. But trial runs were necessary, and, honestly, it could have been worse. And, so long as they didn't put it on their résumé, no one needed to know it had happened.

Tycho lifted his head and popped the cork off the bottle. As he lifted it to his mouth, he paused and looked back down at Gabriel, who was still passed out on the floor. His eyes then wandered over to the logo on the new, amber-colored door.

He half-smiled.

"To the Startling Developments Detective Agency," he repeated softly, motioning his bottle toward the door. "Here's hoping we don't fuck this up."

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
